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This book is due at the WALTER R. DAVIS LIBRARY on 

the last date stamped under "Date Due." If not on hold, it may 

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FORM NO 513, 
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"east LYNNE," "the CHANNINGS," "johnny LUDLOW,'* 


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Puftlisfjers in ^rtiinarg ta ?^cr JWlajests tl)e ©uem» 

Q^^/ rights reserved*^ 


Printed by william clowes and sons, limited, 




I. Mrs. Andinnian^s Home ... 

II. Lucy Cleeve ... 

III. At Sunset 

IV. The Trial ... 

V. Bearing in Silence 

VI. An Atmosphere of Mystery ... 

VII. At the Charing Cross Hotel 

VIII. In the Avenue d'Antin 

IX. At Foxwood 

X. Mrs. Andinnian's Secret 

XI. At the Gate of The Maze 

XII. Taking an Evening Stroll ... 

XIII. Miss Blake gets in 

XIV. Miss Blake on the Watch ... 
XV. Revealed to Lady Andinnian 

XVI. A Night at The Maze 

XVII. Before the World 

XVIIL A Night Alarm 

XIX. In the Same Train 

XX. At the Station 



... 29 

... 47 

... 66 

... 82 

... 106 

... 130 

... 153 

... 180 

... 206 





XXI. Hard to bear ... ,.. ... .., 229 

XXII. With his Brother ... ... ... 238 

XXIII. The Maze invaded ... ... ... ... 245 

XXIV. Recognized ... ... ... ... 256 

XXV. A New Lodger in Paradise Row ... ... 262 

XXVI. Nurse Chaffen on Duty ... ,.. ... 269 

XXVII. Watching the House ... ... ... 283 

XXVIII. At Afternoon Service ... ... ... 294 

XXIX. At Lawyer St. Henry's ... ... ... 305 

XXX. Another Kettle-drum ... ... ... 317 

XXXI. Only a Night Owl ... ... ... ... 332 

XXXII. One Day in her Life ... ... ... 345 

XXXIII. Mrs. Chaffen disturbed ... ,.. ... 355 

XXXIV. Baffled ... ... 362 

XXXV. At Scotland Yard ... ... ... ... 370 

XXXVI. Untoward Chances ... ... ... 381 

XXXVII. Ann Hopley startled ... ... ... 392 

XXXVIIL Searching Clematis Cottage ... ... 402 

XXXIX. Taken from the Evil to come ... ... 411 

XL. News for Mr. Tatton ... ... ... 420 

XLI. Mrs. Cleeve at Fault ... ... ... 430 

XLII. At the Red Dawn ... ... ... 444 

XLIII. Laid to his Rest ... ... ... ... 456 

XLIV. Repentance ... ... ... ... 461 

XLV. Only a Man like other Men ... ... 469 

Conclusion ... ... ... ... 474 




The house was ugly and old-fashioned, with sundry modern 
improvements, and was surrounded by a really beautiful garden. 
Though situated close upon a large market-town of North- 
amptonshire, it stood alone, excluded from the noise and bustle 
of the world. 

The occupant of this house was a widow lady, Mrs. Andin- 
nian. Her husband, a post-captain in the Royal Navy, had 
been dead some years. She had two sons. The elder, Adam, 
was of no profession, and lived with her ; the younger, Karl, 
was a lieutenant in one of her Majesty's regiments. Adam 
was presumptive-heir to his uncle. Sir Joseph Andinnian, a 
baronet of modern creation : Karl had his profession alone to 
look to, and a small private income of two hundred a-year. 

They were not rich, these Andinnians : though the late 
captain had deemed himself well-off, with his private fortune, 
and his pay. The private fortune was just six hundred a-year ; 
the pay not great : but Captain Andinnian's tastes were simple, 
his wants few. At his death it was found that he had 
bequeathed his money in three equal portions : two hundred 
a-year to his wife, and two hundred to each of his sons. 
*^ Adam and his mother will live together," he said in the will ; 
" she would not be parted from him : and four hundred pounds, 
with her small pension, will be sufficient for comfort. When 
Adam succeeds his uncle, they can make any fresh arrangement 

Within the Maze, % 


that pleases them. But I hope that when that time shall come 
they will not forget Karl." 

Mrs. Andinnian resented the will, and resented these words 
in it. Her elder boy, Adam, had always been first and fore- 
most with her : never a mother loved a son more ardently than 
she loved him. For Karl she cared not. Captain Andinnian 
was not blind to the injustice, and perhaps thence arose the 
motive that induced him not to leave his wife's two hundred 
a-year of income at her own disposal. When Mrs. Andinnian 
died it would lapse to Karl. The captain had loved his sons 
equally : he would willingly have left them equally provided for 
in life, and divided the fortune that was to come sometime to 
Adam. Mrs. Andinnian, in spite ot the anticipated elevation 
for Adam, would have had him left better-off from his father's 
property than Karl. 

There had been an almost life-long feud between the two 
family branches. Sir Joseph Andinnian and his brother the 
captain had not met for years and years : and it was a positive 
fact that the latter's sons had never seen their uncle. For this 
feud the brothers themselves were not in the first instance to 
blame. It did not arise with them, but with their wives. 
Both ladies were of a haughty, overbearing, and implacable 
temper. They had quarrelled very soon after their first 
introduction to each other; the quarrel grew, and grew, and 
finally drew the husbands into its vortex. 

Joseph Andinnian, the younger of the two brothers, had been 
a noted and very successful civil engineer. Some great work, 
that he had originated and completed, gained him his reward — 
a baronetcy. Whilst he was in the very flush of his new 
honours, an accident that he met with laid him for many 
months upon a sick-bed. Not only that : it incapacitated him 
for future active service. So, when he was little more than a 
middle-aged man, he retired from his profession, and took up 
his abode for life at a pretty estate he had bought in Kent, 
called Foxwood Court, barely an hour's railway journey from 
London : by an express train not much more than half-an- 
hour's. Here, he and his wife had since lived : he growing 
more and more of an invalid as the years went on. They had 
no children ; consequently his brother. Captain Andinnian, 


was heir to the baronetcy : and, following on Captain Andin- 
nian, Adam, the captain's eldest son. 

Captain Andinnian did not live to succeed. In what seemed 
the pride of his health and strength, just after he had landed 
from a three-years' voyage, and was indulging in visions of a 
flag, symptoms of a mortal disease manifested themselves. He 
begged his physicians to let him know the truth ; and they did 
so. He must expect but a very few weeks more of life. 
Captain Andinnian, after taking a day or two to look matters 
fully in the face, went up to London, and thence down to Sir 
Joseph's house in Kent. The brothers once face to face, met 
as though no ill-blood had ever separated them : hands were 
locked in hands, gaze went out to gaze. Both were simple, 
earnest, affectionate men ; and but for their wives — to whom, 
if the truth must be avowed, each lay in subjection — not a 
mis-word would ever have arisen between them. 

" I am dying, Joseph," said the captain, when some of their 
mutual emotion had worn away. *' The doctors tell me so, 
and I feel it to be true. Naturally, it has set me thinking of 
many things ; things that I am afraid I have too carelessly put 
off. What I have come down to you chiefly for, is to ask 
about my son — Adam. You'll tell me the truth, won't you, 
Joseph, as between brothers ? " 

"I'll tell you anything, Harry," was Sir Joseph's answer. 
" The truth about what ? " . 

" Whether he is to succeed you or not ? " 

" Why, of course he must succeed : failing yourself. What 
are you thinking of, Harry, to ask it ? I've no son of my own : 
it isn't likely I shall have one now. He will be Sir Adam 
after me." 

'^It's not the title I was thinking of, Joseph. Failing a 
direct heir, I know that must come to him. But the property? 
— will he have that ? It is not entailed ; and you could cut 
him off absolutely." 

" D'you think I'd be so unjust as that, Harry ? " was the half- 
indignant reply. "A title, and nothing to keep it up on ! I 
have never had an idea of leaving it away from you ; or from 
him, if you went first. When Adam succeeds to my name and 
rank, he will succeed to my property. Were my wife to 


survive me, she would have this place for life, and a good part 
of the income : but Adam would have it all at her death." 

" This takes a weight off my mind," avowed Captain Andin- 
nian. " Adam was not brought up to any profession. Beyond 
the two hundred a-year he will inherit from me " 

^^ A bad thing that — no profession," interrupted Sir Joseph. 
^^ If I had ten sons, and they were all heirs to ten baronetcies, 
each should be brought up to use his brains or his hands." 

" It's what I have urged over and over again," acknowledged 
the captain. " But the wife — you know what she is — set her 
face against it. / He'll be Sir Adam Andinnian of Foxwood,' 
she would answer me with, 'and he shall not soil his hands 
with work.' Then I have been nearly always afloat, Joseph : 
not on the spot to enforce things : something has lain in that 

" I wonder the young man should not have put himself 
forward to be of use in the world ! " 

''Adam is idly inclined. I am sorry for it, but it is so. 
One thing has been against him, and that's his health. He's 
as tall and strong a young fellow to look at as you'd meet in a 
summer day, but he is, I fear, anything but sound in constitution. 
A nice fellow too, Joseph." 

'' Of good disposition ? " 

" Very. We used to be almost afraid of him as a boy ; he 
would put himself into such unaccountable fits of passion. 
Just as — as — somebody else used to do, you know, Joseph," 
added the sailor, with some hesitation. 

Sir Joseph nodded. The somebody else was the captain's 
wife, and Adam's mother. Sir Joseph's own wife was not 
exempt from the same sort of failing : but in a less wild degree 
than Mrs. Andinnian. With her, the defects of temper were 
more of the nature of sullenness. 

" But Adam seems to have outgrown all that : I've seen and 
heard nothing of it since he came to manhood," resumed the 
captain. " I wish from my heart he had some profession to 
occupy him. His mother always filled him with the notion 
that he would be your heir, and would not want it." 

" He'll be my heir, in all senses, safe enough, Harry : though 
I would rather have heard he was given to industry than 


idleness. How does he get through his time? Young men 
naturally seek some pursuit as an outlet for their superfluous 

" Adam has a pursuit that he makes a hobby of 3 and that is 
his love of flowers; in fact, his love of gardening in any shape. 
He'll be out amidst the plants and shrubs from sunrise to 
sunset. Trained to it, he would have made a second Sir 
Joseph Paxton. I should like you to see him : he is very 

" And the young one — what is he like ? What's his name 
by the way ? Henry ? " 

" No. Karl." 

" Karl ? " repeated Sir Joseph, in surprise, as if questioning 
whether he heard aright. 

"Ay, Karl. His mother was in Germany when he was 
born ; it being a cheap place to live in — I was only a poor 
lieutenant then, Joseph, and just gone ofl" to be stationed before 
the West Indies. A great friend of hers there, some German 
lady, had a little boy named Karl. My wife fell in love with 
the name, and called her own infant after it." 

" Well, it sounds an outlandish name to me," cried the 
baronet, who was entirely unacquainted with every language 
but his own. 

"So I thought, when she first wrote me word," assented 
Captain Andinnian. '^ But after I came home and got used to 
call the lad by it, you don't know how I grew to like it. 
The name gains upon your favour wonderfully, Joseph : sind I 
have heard other people say the same. It is Charles in English, 
you know." 

" Then why not call him Charles ? " 

** Because the name is really Karl, and not Charles. He 
was baptized in Germany, but christened in England, and in 
both places it was 'Karl.' His mother has never cared very 
much for him." 

" For him or his name, do you mean ? " 

"Oh, for him." 

Sir Joseph opened his eyes. " Why on earth not ? ^' 

" Because all the love her nature's capable of — and in her 
It's tolerably strong — is given to Adam. She can't spare an 


atom from him : her love for him is a sort of idolatry. For one 
things she was very ill when Karl was born, and neither nursed 
nor tended him. He was given over to the care of her sister 
who lived with her, and who had him wholly, so to say, for the 
first three years of his life." 

" And what's Karl like ? " repeated Sir Joseph. 

** You ought to see him," burst forth the captain, with anirna-^ 
tion. " He's everything that's good and noble and worthy. 
Joseph, there are not many young men of the present day so 
attractive as Karl." 

" With a tendency to be passionate, like his brother? " 

" Not he. A tendency to patience, rather. They have put 
upon him at home — between ourselves ; kept him down, you 
know ; both mother and brother. He is several years younger 
than Adam ; but they are attached to each other. A more 
gentle, sweet-tempered lad than Karl never lived : all his 
instincts are those of a gentleman. He will make a brave 
soldier. He is ensign in the — regiment." 

*^ The — regiment," repeated Sir Joseph. " Rather a crack 
corps that, is it not ? " 

" Yes ; Karl has been lucky. He will have to make his own 
way in the world, for I can't give him much. But now that I 
am assured of your intentions as to Adam, things look a trifle 
brighter. Joseph, I thank you with all my heart." 

Once more the brothers clasped hands. This re-union was 
the pleasantest event of their later lives. The captain remained 
two days at Foxwood. Lady Andinnian was civilly courteous 
to him, but never cordial. She did not second her husband's 
pressing wish that he should prolong his stay : neither did she 
once ask after any of his family. 

Captain Andinnian's death took place, as anticipated. His 
will, when opened, proved to be what was mentioned above. 
Some years had gone by since. Mrs. Andinnian and her son 
Adam had continued to live together in their quiet home in 
Northamptonshire; Karl, lieutenant now, and generally with his 
regiment, paying them an occasional visit. No particular 
change had occurred, except the death of Lady Andinnian. 
The families had continued to be estranged as heretofore : for 
never a word of invitation had come from Foxwood. Report 


ran that Sir Joseph was ailmg much ; very much indeed since 
the loss of his wife. And now, that this introduction is over, 
we can go on with the story. 

It was a beautiful day in April. At a large window thrown 
open to the midday sun, just then very warm and bright, sat a 
lady of some five-and-fifty years. A tall, handsome, command- 
ing woman, resolution written in every line of her haughty face. 
She wore a black silk gown with the slightest possible amount 
of crape on it, and the guipure cap — or, rather, the guipure 
lappets, for of cap there was not much to be seen — had in them 
some black ribbon. Her purple-black hair was well preserved 
and abundant still ; her black eyes were stern, and fearlessly 
honest. It was Mrs. Andinnian. 

She was knitting what is called a night-sock. Some sick 
pensioner of hers or her son's — for both had their charities — ■ 
needed the comfort. Her thoughts were busy ; her eyes went 
fondly out to the far end of the garden, where she could just 
discern her son against the shrubs : the fairest and dearest sight 
to Mrs. Andinnian that earth had ever contained for her, or 
ever would contain. 

*' It is strange Sir Joseph does not write for him," ran her 
thoughts— and they very often did run in the same groove. 
" I cannot imagine why he does not. Adam ought to be on 
the spot and get acquainted with his inheritance ; his uncle 
must know that he ought. But that I have never stooped to 
ask a favour in my life, I would write to Sir Joseph, and suggest 
a visit for Adam, and — for — yes, for me. During that woman's 
lifetime Adam was not likely to be welcomed there : but the 
woman's gone. It is two months this very day since she died." 

The woman thus unceremoniously alluded to was Lady 
Andinnian : and the slight mourning was worn for her. Some 
intricacy in the knitting caused Mrs. Andinnian to bend her 
head : when she looked up again, her son was not to be seen. 
At the same moment, a faint sound of distant conversation 
smote upon her ear. The work dropped on her lap ; with a 
look of annoyance she lifted her head to listen. 

" He is talking to that girl again ! I am sure of it." 

Raise her head and her ears as she would, she could not 


positively tell whose voices they were. Instinct, however, that in- 
stinct of suspicion we all feel within us on occasion, was enough. 

A respectable man-servant of middle age, thoughtful-looking, 
and of fair complexion, entered the room and presented a note to 
his mistress. '^ Who is it from ? " she asked as she took it from 
the silver waiter. An old waiter, bearing the Andinnian crest. 

" Mrs. Poole's housemaid has brought it, ma'am. She is 
waiting for an answer." 

It was only a friendly note of invitation from a neighbour, 
asking Mrs. Andinnian and her two sons to go in that evening. 
For Karl, the second son, had come home for a two-days' visit, 
and was just then writing letters in another room. 

" Yes, we will go — if Adam has no engagement," said Mrs. 
Andinnian to herself, but half aloud. *' Hewitt, go and tell 
Mr. Andinnian that I wish to speak with him." 

The man went across the garden and through the wilderness 
of shrubs. There stood his master at an open gate, talking to 
a very pretty girl with bright hair and rosy cheeks 

" My mistress wishes to see you, Mr. Adam." 

Adam Andinnian turned, a defiant expression on his haughty 
face, as if he did not like the interruption. He was a very fine 
man of some three-and-thirty years, tall and broad-shouldered, 
with his mother's cast of proud, handsome features, her fresh 
complexion, and her black hair. His eyes were dark grey, 
deeply set in the head, and singularly beautiful. His teeth also 
were remarkably good ; white, even, and prominent, and he 
showed them very much. 

" Tell my mother I'll come directly, Hewitt." 

Hewitt went back wdth the message. The young lady who 
had turned to one of her own flower-beds, for the gardens 
joined, was bending over some budding tulips. 

" I think they will be out next week, Mr. Andinnian," she 
looked round to say. 

** Never mind the tulips," he answered, after a pause, during 
which he had leaned on the iron railings, looking dark and 
haughty. " I want to hear more about this." 

"There's nothing more to hear," was the young lady's 

*' That won't do, Rose. Come here." 


And she went obediently. 

The house to which this other garden belonged was a humble, 
unpretending dwelling, three parts cottage, one part villa. A 
Mr. Turner lived in it with his wife and niece. The former 
was in a flourishing retail business in the town : a grocer : and 
he and his wife were as humble and unpretending as tlieir 
dwelling. The niece, Rose, was different. Her father had 
been a lawyer in small local practice : and at his death, Rose — 
her mother also dead — was taken by her uncle and aunt, who 
loved both her and her childish beauty. Since then she had 
lived with them, and they educated her well. She was a good 
girl : and in the essential points of mind, manners, and appear- 
ance, a lady. But her position was of necessity a somewhat 
isolated one. With the tradespeople of the town Rose Turner 
did not care to mix : she felt that, however worthy, they were 
beneath her; quite of another order. On the other hand, 
gentlepeople would not associate with Miss Turner, or put so 
much as the soles of their shoes over the door-sill of the grocer's 
private house. At sixteen she had been sent to a finishing 
school : at eighteen she came back as pretty and as nice a girl 
as one of fastidious taste would wish to see. 

Years before, Adam and Karl Andinnian had made friends 
with the little child : they continued to be intimate with her as 
brothers and sister. Latterly it had dawned on Mrs. Andin- 
nian's perception that Adam and Miss Turner were a good 
deal together ; certainly more than they need be. Adam had 
even come to neglect his flowers that he so much loved, and to 
waste his time talking to Rose. It cannot be said that Mrs. 
Andinnian feared any real complication — any undesirable result 
of any kind ; the great difference in their ages might alone have 
served to dispel the notion : Adam was thirty-three ; Miss 
Turner was only just out of her teens. But she was vexed with 
her son for being so frivolous and foolish : and, although she 
did not acknowledge it to herself, a vague feeling of uneasiness 
in regard to it lay at the bottom of her heart. As to Adam, 
he kept his thoughts to himself. Whether this new propensity 
for wasting his hours with Miss Turner arose out of mere 
pastime, or whether he entertained for, her any warmer feeling, 
was his own secret. 


Things — allowing for argument's sake that there was some 
love in the matter — were destined not to go on with uninter- 
rupted smoothness. There is a proverb to the effect, you know. 
During the last few weeks a young medical student, named 
Martin Scott, had become enamoured of Miss Turner. At first, 
he had confined himself to silent admiration. Latterly he had 
taken to speaking of it. Free-mannered, after the fashion of 
medical students of graceless nature, he had twice snatched 
a kiss from her : and the young lady, smarting under the in- 
fliction, indignant, angry, had this day whispered the tale to 
Adam Andinnian. And no sooner was it done, than she 
repented : for the hot fury, that shone out of Mr. Andinnian's 
face, startled her greatly. 

They were standing together again at the small iron gate, ere 
the sound of Hewitt's footsteps had well died away. Rose 
Turner had the true golden hair that ladies have taken to covet 
and spend no end of money on pernicious dyes in trying to ob- 
tain. Her garden hat was untied, and she was playing with its 

" Rose, I must know all ; and I insist upon your telling me. 
Go on." 

" But indeed I have told you all, Mr. Andinnian." 

Mr. Andinnian gazed steadfastly into Miss Rose's eyes, as if 
he would read the truth in their very depths. It was evident 
that she now spoke unwillingly, and only in obedience to his 
stronger will. 

^' It was last night, was it, that he came up, this brute of a 
Scott ? " 

" Last night, about six," she answered. " We were at tea, 
and my aunt asked him to take some " 

'' Which he did, of course ? " savagely interrupted Mr. 

^' Yes ; and ate two muffins all to himself," laughed Miss 
Turner, trying to turn aside the anger. Mr. Andinnian did not 
like the merriment. 

" Be serious, if you please, child ; this is a serious matter. 
Was it after tea that he— that he dared to insult you ? " and 
the speaker closed his right hand with a meaning gesture as he 
said it. 


" Yes. My aunt went to the kitchen to see about something 
that was to be prepared for my uncle's supper — for she is 
fidgety about the cooking, and will never trust it to the servant. 
Martin Scott then began to tease as usual ; saying how much 
he cared for me, and asking me to wait for him until he could 
get into practice." 

" Well ? " questioned Adam, impatiently, as she stopped. 

*^ I told him that he had already had his answer from me, 
and that he had no right to bring the matter up again ; that it 
was foolish besides, as it only set me more against him. Then 
I sat down to the piano and played the ^Chatelaine' — he only 
likes rattling music — and sang a song, thinking it would pass 
the time until my aunt returned. By-and-by I heard ray uncle's 
latch-key in the front-door, and I was crossing the room to go 
and meet him, when Martin Scott laid hold of my arm, and — 
and kissed me." 

Mr. Andinnian bit his lip almost to bleeding. His face was 
frightful in its anger. Rose shivered a little. 

*' I am sorry I told you, Mr. Andinnian." 

" Now listen, Rose. If ever this Martin Scott does the like 
again, I'll shoot him." 

'' Oh, Mr. Andinnian ! " 

" I shall warn him. In the most unmistakable words ; words 
that he cannot misconstrue ; I will warn him of what I mean 
to do. Let him disregard it at his peril ; if he does so, I'll 
shoot him as I would shoot a dog." 

The very ferocity of the threat, its extreme nature, disarmed 
Miss Turner's belief in it. She smiled up in the speaker's face 
and shook her head, but was content to let the subject pass 
away in silence. Adam Andinnian, quite forgetting his mother's 
message, began talking of pleasanter things. 

Meanwhile, Mrs. Andinnian's patience was getting ex- 
hausted : she hated to keep other people's servants waiting her 
pleasure. Her fingers were on the bell to ring for Hewitt, 
when Karl entered the room, some sealed letters in his hand. 
A slender man of seven-and-twenty, slightly above the middle- 
height, with pale, clearly-cut features and a singularly nice 
expression of countenance. He had the deeply set, beautiful 
grey eyes of his brother ; but his hair, instead of being black 


and straight, was brown and wavy. An attractive-looking man, 
this Karl Andinnian. 

*^I am going out to post these letters," said Karl. *'Can 
I do anything for you in the town, mother ? '' 

The voice was attractive also. Low-toned, clear, musical, full 
of truth : a voice to be trusted all over the world. Adam's voice 
was inclined to harshness, and he had a loud way of speaking. 

" Nothing in the town," replied Mrs. Andinnian : and now 
that you notice it, her voice was harsh also. ^* But you can go 
and ask your brother why he keeps me waiting. He is behind 
the shrubbery." 

Karl left his letters on the table, traversed the garden, and 
found Adam with Miss Turner. They turned to wait his 
approach. A half-doubt, he knew not wherefore, dawned for 
the first time on his mind. 

" How are you this morning. Rose ? " he asked, raising his 
hat with the ceremony one observes to an acquaintance, rather 
than to an intimate friend. *^ Adam, the mother seems vexed : 
you are keeping her waiting, she says, and she wishes to know 
the reason for it." 

^^ I had forgotten all about it," cried Adam. *^ Deuce take 
the thorn ! " 

For just at that moment he had run a thorn into his finger. 
Karl began talking with Miss Turner: there was no obligation 
on him to return forthwith to the house. 

^' Go back, will you, Karl, and tell the mother I am sorry I 
forgot it. I shall be there as soon as you are." 

*' A genteel way of getting rid of me," thought Karl, with 
a laugh, as he at once turned into the shrubbery. '' Good day 
to you. Rose." 

But when he was fairly beyond their sight Karl's face became 
as grave as a judge's. " Surely Adam is not drifting into any- 
thing serious in that quarter ! " ran his thoughts. " It would 
never do." 

" Well — have you seen Adam ? " began Mrs. Andinnian, when 
he entered. 

" Yes. He is coming immediately." 

" Coming!'' — and she curled her lips. '^ He ought to come. 
Who is he with, Karl?'' 


"With Miss Turner." 

" What nonsense ! IdHng about with a senseless child ! " 

"I suppose it IS nothing but nonsense ?" spoke Karl, in- 
cautiously. " She — Miss Turner — would scarcely be the right 
woman in the right place." 

His mother glanced at him sharply. " In what place ? — 
what woman ? " 

*^ As Lady Andinnian.** 

Karl had angered his mother before in his lifetime, but 
scarcely ever as now. She turned livid as death, and took up 
the first thing that came to her hand — a silver inkstand, kept 
for show, not use— and held it as if she would hurl it at his 

" How dare you, sir, even in supposition, so traduce your 
brother ? " 

*^I beg your pardon, mother. I spoke without thought." 

As she was putting down the inkstand, Adam came in. He 
saw that something was wrong. Mrs. Andinnian spoke abruptly 
about the invitation for the evening, and asked if he would go. 
Adam said he could go, and she left the room to give, herself, 
a verbal answer to the waiting servant. 

"What was the matter, Karl ? " 

" The mother was vexed at your staying with Rose Turner, 
instead of coming in. It was nonsense, she said, to be idling 
about with a senseless child. I — unfortunately, but quite un- 
intentionally — added to her anger by remarking that I supposed 
it was nonsense, for she, Miss Turner, would scarcely be a 
suitable Lady Andinnian." 

" Just attend to your own affairs," growled Adam. " Keep 
yourself in your place." 

Karl looked up with his sweet smile ; answering with his 
frank and gentle voice. The smile and the voice acted like oil 
on troubled waters. 

" You know, Adam, that I should never think of interfering 
with you, or of opposing your inclinations. In the wide world, 
there's no one, I think, so anxious as I am for your happiness 
and welfare." 

Adam did know it, and their hands met in true affection. Few 
brothers loved each other as did Adam and Karl Andinnian. 


Seeing them together thus, they were undoubtedly two fine 
young men — as their sailor father had once observed to his 
brother. But Karl, with his nameless air of innate goodness 
and refinement, looked the greater gentleman. 



Lingering under the light of the sweet May moon, arm within 
arm, their voices hushed, their pace slow, went two individuals, 
whom few, looking upon them, could have failed to mistake for 
anything but lovers. Lovers they were, in heart, mind, and 
thought : with as pure and passionate and ardent a love as ever 
was felt on earth. And yet, no word of love had ever been 
spoken between them. 

It was one of those cases where love, all unpremeditated, had 
grown up, swiftly, surely, silently. Had either of them known 
that they were drifting into it, they might have had sufficient 
prudence to separate forthwith, before the danger grew into 
certainty. For he, the obscure and almost portionless young 
soldier, had the sense to see that he would be regarded as no 
fitting match for the daughter of Colonel and the Honourable 
Mrs. Cleeve ; both of high lineage and inordinately proud of it 
into the bargain. And she, Lucy Cleeve, knew that, for all her 
pedigree, she was nearly portionless also, and that her future 
husband, whomsoever he might be, must possess a great deal 
more of this world's goods than did Lieutenant Andinnian. 
Ay, and of family also. But, there it was : they had drifted 
into this mutual love unconsciously : each knew that it was for 
all time : and that, in comparison, *^ family" and "goods" were 
as nothing to them. 

" And so Miss Blake is back again, Lucy ? " 

The words, spoken by Mr. Andinnian, broke one of those 
long pauses of delicious silence, that in themselves seem like 
tastes of paradise. Lucy Cleeve^s tones in answer were low and 
soft as his. 


" She came back to-day. I hardly knew her. Her hau' is 
all put on the top of her head : and — and " 

Lucy stopped. " And is of another colour," she had been 
about to conclude. But it might not be quite good-natured to 
say it, even to one to whom she would willingly have given her 
whole heart's confidence. Reared in the highest of all high 
and true principles, and naturally gifted with them, Lucy had 
a peculiar dread of deceit : her dislike of it extended even to 
the changing of the colour of the hair. But she was also of 
that sweet and generous disposition that shrinks from speaking 
a slighting word of another. She resumed hastily and with a 
slight laugh. 

'' Theresa is in love with Rome ; and especially with its 
cardinals. One of them w^as very civil to her, Karl." 

" About this picnic to-morrow, Lucy. Are you to be allowed 
to go to it } '^ 

" Yes, now Theresa is here. Mamma would not have liked 
to send me without some one from home : and the weather is 
scarcely warm enough for herself to venture. Do — you — go ? " 
she asked timidly. 

'' Yes." 

There was silence again : their hearts beating in unison. The 
prospect of a whole day together, spent amidst glens, and woods, 
and dales, was too much for utterance. 

For the past twelve months, Lieutenant Andinnian's regiment 
had been quartered at Winchester. On his arrival, he had 
brought with him a letter of introduction to one of the clergy 
there — a good old man, whose Rectory was on the outskirts of the 
town. The Reverend Mr. Blake and his wife took a great fancy 
to the young lieutenant, and made much of him. Living wath 
them at that time was a relative, a Miss Blake. This lady was 
an orphan : she had a small fortune, somewhere between two 
and three hundred a-year : and she stayed sometimes with the 
Blakes, sometimes with the Cleeves, to w^hom she and the 
Blakes were related. 

A writer has sometimes to tell secrets : not always pleasant 
ones. In this case, it must be disclosed that the one secret 
wish of Theresa Blake's life, to which her whole energies (in 
^ lady-like way) were directed, was — to get married, and to 


marry well. If we could see into the hearts of some other 
young ladies, especially when they have left the bloom of youth 
behind them, we might find them filled with the same ardent 
longing. Hitherto Miss Blake's hopes had not been realized. 
She was not foolish enough to marry downright unwisely : and 
nothing eligible had come in her way. Considering that she 
was so very sensible a young woman — for good common sense 
was what Miss Blake prided herself upon — it was very simple 
of her to take up the notion she did — that the attractive young 
lieutenant's frequent visits to the Rectory were made for her 
sake. She fell head over ears in love with him. She thought 
that his attentions (ordinary attentions in truth, and paid to her 
as the only young lady of a house where the other inmates were 
aged) spoke plainly of his love for her. Of what are called 
^^flirtations" Theresa Blake had had enough and to spare: 
but of true love she had hitherto known nothing. She ignored 
the difference in their years — for there was a difference — and 
she waited for the time when the young of^cer should speak 
out. Her income joined to his and his pay, would make what 
she thought they could live very comfortably upon. Love 
softens difficulties as does nothing else in life. Before she knew 
Karl Andinnian, Miss Blake would have scorned the notion of 
taking any man who could not have offered her a settlement of 
a thousand a-year at least. 

But now — what was Karl Andinnian's share in all this? 
Simply none. He had no more notion that the young lady was 
in love with him than that old Mrs. Blake was. If Miss Blake 
did not see the years that she had come to, he did ; and would 
almost as soon, as far as age went, have offered to marry his 
mother. To a young man of twenty-six, a woman of thirty-four 
looks quite old. And so, in this misapprehension — the one 
finding fresh food for her hopes day by day, the other at his 
ease in his utter unconsciousness — the summer and autumn had 
passed away. At the close of autumn Miss Blake departed 
with some friends for the Continent, more particularly to visit 
Paris and Rome. But that it was a long-standing engagement, 
and also that she had so wished to see those renowned places, 
she would not have torn herself away from the locality that con- 
tained Mr. Andinnian. 


Shortly afterwards the Cleeves returned to Winchester, after 
a long absence. They resided without the town, just beyond 
Mr. Blake's Rectory. Lucy Cleeve had been in the habit of 
spending nearly as much time at the Rectory as at home : and 
it was from the untiring training of the Rector and his good wife 
that Lucy had learnt to be the truly excellent girl she was. On 
the very day of her return, she and Karl Andinnian met : and 
— if it was not exactly love at first sight with them, it was some- 
thing very like it ; for each seemed drawn to the other by that 
powerful, sympathetic attraction that can no more be controlled 
than explained or accounted for. A few more meetings, and 
they loved for all time : and since then they had gone on living 
in a dream of happiness. 

There they were, pacing together the Rectory garden under 
the warm May moonlight. The Rector had been called out to 
a sick parishioner, and they had strolled with him to the gate. 
Mrs. Blake, confined to her sofa, was unsuspicious as the day. 
Lucy, twenty years of age, was looked upon by her as a child 
still : and the old are apt to forget the sweet beguilements of 
their own long-past youth, and that the young of the present 
day can be drifting into the same. 

" It is very pleasant ; quite warm," spoke Mr. Andinnian. 
*^ Would you like another turn, Lucy ? " 

They both turned without a word of assent from her, and 
paced side by side to the gate in a rapture of silence. Lucy 
left him to pluck a spray from the sweet-briar hedge; and then 
they turned again. The moon went behind a cloud. 

*'Take my arm, Lucy. It is getting quite dark." 

She took it ; the darkness affording the excuse ; and the 
night hid the blushes on her transparent cheeks. They were 
half-way down the walk, and Karl was bending his head to 
speak to her ; his tones low, though their subject was nothing 
more than the projected party for the morrow; when some one 
who had approached the gate from the road, stood still there 
to look at them. 

It was Miss Blake. She had that day returned from her 
Continental excursion, and taken up her abode, as arranged, at 
Colonel Cleeve's. Whether at the Rectory or at Colonel Cleeve's, 
Miss Blake paid at the rate of a hundred a-year for the accom- 

Within the Maze. 2 


modation ; and then, as she said, she felt independent. It was 
a private arrangement, one that she insisted on. Her sojourn 
abroad had not tended one whit to cool her love for Mr. 
Andinnian ; absence had rather augmented it. She had come 
home with all her pulses bounding and her heart glowing at the 
prospect of seeing him again. 

But — she saw him with some one else. The moon was out 
again in all her silvery brightness, and Miss Blake had keen 
eyes. She saw one on his arm, to whom he seemed to be 
whispering, to whose face his own was bent ; one younger and 
fairer than she — Lucy Cleeve. A certain possibility of what it 
might mean darted through her mind with a freezing horror that 
caused her to shiver. But only for a moment. She drove it 
away as absurd — and opened the gate with a sharp click. They 
turned at the sound of her footsteps and loosed arms. Mr. 
Andinnian doffed his hat in salutation, and held out his hand. 

'' Miss Blake ! '' 

" I came with old John to fetch you, Lucy, wishing to see 
dear Mrs. Blake,'' she carelessly said in explanation, letting her 
hand lie in Karl's, as they turned to the house. " And it is 
a lovely night. John has gone round to the kitchens.'^ 

Coming into the light of the sitting-room, you could see what 
Miss Blake was like — and Lucy, also, for that matter. Miss 
Blake was tall, upright ; and, if there was a fault in her exceed- 
ingly well-made figure, it was that it was too thin. Her features 
and complexion were very good, her eyes were watchful and 
had a green tinge in them ; and the hair, originally red, had 
been converted into a sort of auburn that had more than one 
shade of colour in it. Altogether, Miss Blake was good-look- 
ing; and she invariably dressed well, in the height of any 
fashion that might be prevalent. What with her well-preserved 
face, her quantity of youthful hair, and her natty attire, she had 
an idea that she looked years and years less than her real age ; 
as in fact she did. 

And Lucy ? Lucy was a gentle girl with a soft, sweet face ; 
a face of intellect, and goodness, and sensibility. Her refined 
features were of the highest type ; her clear eyes were of a 
remarkably light brown, the long eyelashes and the hair some- 
what darker. By the side of the upright and always self- 


possessed Miss Blake — I had almost written self-asserting — she 
looked a timid, shrinking child. What with Miss Blake's 
natural height, and the unnatural pyramid of hair upon her 
head, Lucy appeared short. But Lucy was not below the 
middle height of women. 

" I wonder — I wonder how much he has seen of Lucy ? " 
thought Miss Blake, beginning to watch and to listen, and to 
put in prompting questions here and there. 

She contrived to gather that the lieutenant had been a 
tolerably frequent visitor at Colonel Cleeve's during the spring. 
She observed — and Miss Blake's observance was worth having 
—that his good-night to Lucy was spoken in a different tone 
from the one to herself : lower and softer. 

*' There cannot be anything between them ! There cannot, 
surely, be ! " 

Nevertheless the very thought of it caused her face to grow 
cold as with a mortal sickness. 

" I shall see to-morrow," she murmured. *^ They will be 
together at the picnic, and I shall see." 

Miss Blake did see. Saw what, to her jealous eyes — ay, and 
to her cool ones — was proof positive. Lieutenant Andinnian 
and Miss Lucy Cleeve were lost in love the one for the other. 
In her conscientious desire to do her duty — and she did hope 
and believe that no other motive or passion prompted the step 
—Miss Blake, looking upon herself as a sort of guardian over 
Lucy's interests, disclosed her suspicions to Mrs. Cleeve. What 
would be a suitable match for herself, might be quite unsuitable 
for Lucy. 

Colonel Augustus and the Honourable Mrs. Cleeve were 
very excellent people, as people go : their one prominent 
characteristic — perhaps some would rather call it failing — being 
family pride. Colonel Cleeve could claim relationship, near or 
remote, with three lords and a Scotch duke; Mrs. Cleeve was 
a peer's daughter. Their only son was in India with his regi- 
ment : their only daughter, introduced and presented only last 
year, was intended to make a good marriage, both as regards 
rank and wealth. They knew what a charming girl she was, 
and they believed she could not fail to be sought and won. 


One gentleman, indeed, had asked for her in London ; that is, 
had solicited of the colonel the permission to ask for her. He 
was a banker's son. Colonel Cleeve thanked him with courtesy, 
but said that his daughter must not marry beneath her own 
rank : he and her mother hoped she would be a peeress. It 
may therefore be judged what was their consternation when 
Miss Blake dropped a hint of her observations. 

The remark already made, as to Mrs. Blake's blind unsus- 
picion, held good in regard to Colonel Cleeve and his wife. 
They had also taken a fancy to the attractive young lieutenant, 
and were never backward in welcoming him to their house. 
And yet they never glanced at Lticfs interests in the matter ; they 
never supposed that she could be awake to the same attrac- 
tions; or that her attractions had charms for the lieutenant. 
How frequently these cases of bhndness occur in the world, let 
the world answer. Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve would as soon 
have suspected that Lucy was falUng in love with the parish 
clerk. And why ? Because the idea that any one, so much 
beneath them in family and position as Mr. Andinnian, should 
aspire to her, or that she could stoop to think of him, would 
never have entered into their exclusive imaginations, unless 
suggested by some keen-sighted observer such as Miss Blake. 

Mrs. Cleeve, dismayed, frightened, but always mild and 
gentle, begged of Lucy to say that it was a cruel mistake ; and 
that there was *^ nothing '^ between her and Mr. Andinnian. 
Lucy, amidst her blinding tears, answered that nothing what- 
ever had been spoken between them. But she was too truthful, 
too honest, to deny the implication that love existed. Colonel 
Cleeve sent for Mr. Andinnian. 

The young man was just coming in from a full-dress parade 
when the note arrived. It was a peremptory one. He walked 
up at once, without waiting to put off his regimentals. Colonel 
Cleeve, looking the thorough gentleman he was, and wearing 
his customary blue frock-coat, with a white cambric frill at his 
breast, met him at the door of his library. He was short and 
slight, and had mild blue eyes. His white hair was cut nearly 
close, and his forehead and head were so fair that at first sight it 
gave him the appearance of being powdered. The servant 
closed the door upon them. 


That Karl Andinnian was, as the phrase runs, '^aken aback'* 
by the plain questioning of the colonel, cannot be denied. It 
was plunged into without preface. 

'' Is it true that there is an attachment between you and my 
daughter ? Is it true, sir, that you have been making love to 

For a few moments Karl was silent. The colonel saw his 
embarrassment. It was only the momentary embarrassment of 
surprise, and, perhaps, of vexation : but Karl, guileless and 
strictly honourable, never thought of not meeting the matter 
with perfect truth. 

^^That there does exist affection between me and your 
daughter, sir, I cannot deny," he repUed with diffidence. '' At 
least, I can answer for myself — that the truest and tenderest 
love man is, or, as I believe, can be, capable of, I feel for her. 
As to making love to her, I have not done it consciously. But 
— we have been a great deal together ; and I fear Miss Cleeve 
must liave read my heart, as — -as— — " 

" As what, Mr. Andinnian ? " was the stern question. 

"As I have read hers, I was going to presume to say," 
replied Karl, his voice and eyes alike drooping. 

Colonel Cleeve felt confounded. He would have called this 
the very height of impudence, but that the young man, standing 
before him, was so indisputably refined, so modest, and spoke 
as though he were grieved to the heart. 

" And, pray, what could you have promised yourself by thus 
presuining to love my daughter ? " 

" I promised myself nothing. On my word of honour as a 
gentleman, sir, I have not been holding out any hopes or 
promises to myself. I believe," added the young man, with the 
open candour so characteristic of him, " that I have been too 
happy in the present, in Miss Cleeve's daily society — for hardly 
a day passed that we did not see each other — to cast so much 
as a thought to the future." 

" Well, sir, what excuse have you to make for this behaviour ? 
Do you see its folly ? " 

" I see it now. I see it for the first time. Colonel Cleeve. 
For — I — suppose — you will not let me aspire to win her? '^ 

The words were given with deprecation : as if he hardly 
dared to speak thern» 


'* What do you think, yourself, about it ? " sharply asked the 
colonel. "Do you consider yourself a suitable match for Miss 
Cleeve ? In any way ? In any way, Mr. Andinnian? " 

" I am afraid not, sir.'* 

" You are afraid not ! Good Heavens ! Your family — pardon 
me for alluding to it, Mr. Andinnian, but there are moments in 
a lifetime, and this is one of them, when plain-speaking 
becomes a necessity. Your family have but risen from the 
ranks, sir, as we soldiers say, and not much above the ranks 
either. Miss Cleeve is Miss Cleeve : my daughter, and a peer's 

"It is all true, sir." 

" So much for that part of the unsuitability. And then we 
come to means. AVhat are yours, Mr. Andinnian ? " 

The young man lifted his head and his honest grey eyes to 
the half-affrighted but generally calm face. He could only tell 
the truth at all times without equivocation. 

" I fear you will consider my means even more ineligible 
than my family," he said. " I have my pay and two hundred 
a-year. At my mother's death another two hundred a-year will 
come to me." 

Colonel Cleeve drew down his Hps. " And that is all— in 
the present and in the future ? " 

"All I can reckon upon with any certainty. When my 
brother shall succeed Sir Joseph Andinnian, he may do some- 
thing more for me. My father suggested it in his last testa- 
mentary paper : and I think he will do it : I believe he will. 
But of this I cannot be certain ; and in any case it may not be 

Colonel Cleeve paused a moment. He wished the young 
man would not be so straightforwardly candid, so single-minded, 
putting himself, as it were, in all honour in his hands. It left 
the colonel — the mildest man in the world by nature — less 
loophole to get into a proper passion. In the midst of it all, 
he could not help liking the young fellow. 

"Mr. Andinnian, every word you say only makes the case 
worse. Two barriers, each in itself insurmountable, lie, by 
your own showing, between you and my daughter. The bare 
idea of making her your wife is an insult to her. Were it 


carried into a fact— I condemn myself to speak of so impossible 
a thing unwillingly — it would blight her life and happiness for 

Karl's pale face grew red as his coat. ^* These are harsh 
words, Colonel Cleeve." 

" They are true ones, sir : and justifiable. Lucy has been 
reared in the notions befitting her rank. She has been taught 
to expect that when she marries her home will be at least as 
well-appointed as the one she is taken from. My son is a great 
expense to me, and my means are limited as compared with 
my position — I am plain with you, you see, Mr. Andinnian; 
you have been so with me — but still we live as our equals live, 
and have things in accordance about us. But what could you 
offer Lucy? — allowing that in point of family you were 
entitled to mate with her. Why, a lodging in a barrack ; a 
necessity to tramp with you after the regiment at home and 

Karl stood silent, the pain of mortification on his closed lips. 
Colonel Cleeve put the case rather extremely ; but it was near 
the truth, after all. 

"And you would wish to bring this disgrace, this poverty, 
this blight on Lucy ! If you— " 

*' No, sir, I would not," was the impulsive interruption. 
" What do you take me for? Lucy's happiness is a great deal 
dearer to me than my own." 

*'If you have one spark of honour, Mr. Andinnian — and 
until now I believed you had your full share of it — if you do 
care in ever so small a degree for my daughter's comfort and 
welfare ; in short, if you are a man and a gentleman, you will 
aid me in striving to undo the harm that has been done." 

" I will strive to do what is best to be done," replied Karl, 
knowing the fiat that must come, and feeling that his heart was 

^' Very well. Our acquaintance with you must close from 
this hour. And I must ask you to give me your word of 
honour never to attempt to hold future communication with my 
daughter in any way ; never to meet her in society even, if it be 
possible for you to avoid it. In future, you and Miss Cleeve 
are strangers to each other," 


There was a dead silence. Karl seemed to be looking at 
vacancy, over the colonel's head. 

^* You do not speak, Mr. Andinnian." 

He roused himself with a sort of shudder. ^^ I believe I was 
lost in glancing at the blighted life mine will be, Colonel 
Cleeve." And the colonel, in spite of his self-interest, felt a 
sort of pity for the feelings that he saw were stung to the quick. 

*' Do you refuse to comply with my mandate ? " 

^^ No, sir. Putting the affair before me in your own light, no 
alternative is left me. I see, too, that circumstanced as I am 
— and as she is — my dream of love has been nothing but mad- 
ness. On my word of honour. Colonel Cleeve, could I have 
looked at the matter at first as I look at it now, and foreseen 
that we were destined to — to care for each other, I would have 
flown Miss Cleeve's presence." 

''These regrets often come late in the day, Mr. Andinnian," 
was the rather sarcastic answer. 

'^ They have in this case." 

" Then I may rely on your honour ? " 

''You may indeed, sir. But that I see how right and reasonable 
your fiat is ; how essential for Lucy's sake ; I could hardly have 
complied with it; for to part with her will be rending myself 
from every joy in life. I give you my sacred word of honour 
that I will not henceforth attempt to hold communication of 
any kind with her; I will not meet her if I can avoid it. 
That I should live to say this calmly !" added Karl to himself. 

" I expected no less from you, Mr. Andinnian," spoke the 
colonel, stifily but courteously. " I am bound to say that you 
have met this most lamentable affair in a proper spirit. I see 
I may rely upon you." 

" You may rely upon me as you would rely upon yourself," 
said the young officer, earnestly. " Should the time ever come 
that my fortunes ascend — it seems next door to an impossibility 
now, but such things have been heard of — and Lucy be still 
free " 

'• That could make no alteration : want of fortune is not the 
only bar," haughtily interrupted Colonel Cleeve. " The present 
is enough for us, Mr. Andinnian : let us leave the future." 

"Truej The present is enough; and I beg your pardon. 


Colonel Cleeve. I will keep my word both in the spirit and 
the letter. And now, I would make one request to you, sir — 
that you will allow me to see Lucy for an instant before we 
finally part." 

''That you may exact some foolish promise from her? — of 
waiting, or something of that kind ? " was the angry rejoinder. 

*' I told you that you might rely upon me," replied Karl, with 
sad emphasis. " Colonel Cleeve, don't you see what a bitter 
blow this is to me ? " he burst forth, with an emotion he had 
not betrayed throughout the interview. *' It may be bitter to 
Lucy also. Let us say a word of good-bye to each other for 
the last time." 

Colonel Cleeve hardly knew what to do. He did not like 
to say No; he did not like to say Yes. That it was bitter to 
one, he saw ; that it might be bitter to the other, he quite 
believed : and his heart was not hard. 

" I will trust you in this as I trust you in the other, Mr. 
Andinnian. It must be good-bye only, you understand : and a 
brief one." 

He left the room, and sent Lucy in. Almost better for them 
both that he had not done so — for these partings are nearly as 
cruel as death. To both, this severing for all time seemed 
worse than death. Lucy, looking quiet and simple in her 
coloured summer muslin, stood shivering. 

" I could not depart without beggmg you to forgive me, 
Lucy," Karl said, his tone less firm than usual with emotion 
and pain. " I ought to have exercised more thought ; to have 
foreseen what must be the inevitable ending. Colonel Cleeve 
has my promise that I will never again seek you in any way : 
that from henceforth we shall be as strangers. Oh, my darling ! 
— I may surely call you so in this last hour !— this is painful I 
fear to you as to me." 

She went quite close to him, her eyes cast up to his with a 
piteous expression in their depths ; eyes too sad for tears. 

" They have told me the same, Karl. There is no hope at 
all for us. But I — I wish in my turn to say something to you, 
Karl " — and her voice sank to a whisper, and she put out her 
hand as if inviting him to take it — " I shall never forget you, 
I shall never care for you less than I do now," 


He did not take her hand. He took her instead. Almost 
beside himself with the bitter pain, Karl Andinnian so far 
forgot himself as to clasp this young girl to his heart : as to 
rain down on her sweet face the sad kisses from his lips. But 
lie remembered his promise to Colonel Cleeve, and said never 
a word of hope for the future. 

" Forgive me, Lucy ; this and all. Perhaps Colonel Cleeve 
would hardly grudge it to us when it is to be our last meeting 
on earth." 

" In the years to come,'^ she sobbed, her face lying under his 
wet tears, "when we shall be an old man and woman, they 
may let us meet again. Oh, Karl, yes ! and we can talk 
together of that better world, heaven, where there will be no 
separation. We shall be drawing near its gates then, looking 
out for it." 

A slight tap at the door, and Miss Blake entered. She had 
come to summon Lucy. Seeing what she did see — the tears, 
the emotion, the clasped hands, Miss Blake looked — looked 
very grim and stately. 

" Lucy, Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve have sent me to request 
you to go to them." 

"God bless you, Lucy," he whispered. "God bless you, my 
best and dearest. Good-bye for ever." 

With what seemed a cool bow to Miss Blake and never a 
word, for in truth he was unequal to speaking it. Lieutenant 
Andinnian passed into the hall, caught up his hat and sword 
that he had left there, and let himself out, buckling on the 
latter. Lucy had her hands to her face, hiding it. Miss Blake 

" My dear Lucy, what am I to say ? " 

" Tell them that I wish to remain alone, for a few minutes. 
Tell them that Mr. Andinnian is gone." 

Miss Blake, her hard, thin lips compressed with the cruellest 
pain woman can ever feel, took her way back again. Only 
herself knew, or ever would know, what this dreadful blow was 
to her — the finding that she had been mistaken in Karl Andin- 
nian's love. For anguish, such as this, women have lost life. 
One small drop, taken from the bitterness, there was — to know 
that he and his true love had bidden each other adieu for ever. 


" Perhaps — in a few weeks, or months to come — when he 
shall have recovered his folly — he and I may be friends again,'* 
she murmured. " Nay — who knows — may even become some- 
thing warmer and dearer : his feeling for that child can only be 
a passing fancy. Something warmer and dearer," softly repeated 
Miss Blake, as she traversed the hall. 

'^ Lucy will come to you presently, Mrs. Cleve. There is no 
hurry now : Mr. Andinnian is gone." 

" What is Lucy doing, Theresa ? " 

" Sobbing silently, I think : she scarcely spoke to me. 
Fancy her being so foolish ! " 

Mrs. Cleve went at once to the library. She and her 
husband were as much alike as possible : mild, good, un- 
emotional people who hated to inflict pain : with a great love 
for their daughter, and a very great sense of their own importance 
and position in the world, as regarded pride of birth. 

*' Oh, Lucy dear, it was obliged to be. You are reasonable, 
and must know it was. But from my very heart, I am sorry for 
you : and I shall always take blame to myself for not having 
been more cautious than to allow you to become intimate with 
Mr. Andinnian. It seems to me as though I had been living 
with a veil before my eyes.'' 

'^ It is over now : let it pass,'* was Lucy's faint answer. 

** Yes, dear, it is over. All over for good. By this time 
twelvemonth, Lucy, I hope you will be happily married, and 
forget this painful episode in your life. Not, my child, that we 
shall like to part with you : only — it will be for your own 
welfare and happiness." 

Lucy pressed her slender white fingers upon her brow, and 
looked at her mother. There was a puzzled, doubting expres- 
sion in her eyes that spoke of bewilderment. 

"Mamma," she said slowly, "I think perhaps I did not 
understand you. I have parted with Mr. Andinnian, as you 
and papa wished, and as — as I suppose it was right I should 
do ; I shall never, I hope, do anything against your will. But 
— to try to make me marry will be quite a different thing. 
Were you and papa to tell me that you insisted on it, I could 
only resist. And I should resist to the end." 

Mrs. Cleeve saw that she had not been wise. To allude to 


any such future contingency when Lucy was smarting under 
the immediate pain of separation, was a mistake. Sighing 
gently, she sat down and took her daughter's hand, stroking it 

" Lucy, my dear, I will relate to you a little matter of my 
own early experience," she began in hushed tones. *'/once 
had one of the affairs of the heart, as they are called. The 
young man was just as attractive as Mr. Andinnian, and quite 
worthy. But circumstances were unfavourable, and we had to 
part. I thought that all worth living for in life was over. I 
said that I should never care for any one else, and never 
marry. Not so very long afterwards. Captain Cleeve presented 
himself. Before he said a word to me, Lucy, before I knew 
what he was thinking of, I had learnt to like and esteem him : 
and I became his wife." 

" And did you love him ? " questioned Lucy, in great surprise. 

" Oh dear, no. Not with the sort of love I had felt for 
another — the sort of love that I presume you are feeling for 
Mr. Andinnian. Such love never comes back to the heart a 
second time. But, Lucy, my married life has been perfectly 
successful and happy. Once that great passion is over, you 
see, the heart is at rest, calmness and reason have supervened. 
Rely on it, my dear, your married life will be all the happier 
for this experience connected with Mr. Andinnian." 

Lucy said no more. She knew. And Mrs. Cleeve thought 
how dutiful her daughter was. 

On the following day a letter came to the colonel from 
Karl. A well-written, sensible letter; not of rebellion, but of 
acquiescence. Whilst it deplored his fate in separating from 
Lucy, it bowed to the necessity that enforced it. A note was 
enclosed for Lucy : it was unsealed, in case the colonel should 
wish to read before giving it to her. The colonel did so : he 
did not fear treason from Karl, but it was as well to be on the 
safe side and assure himself there was none. It contained 
only a few words, rather more coherent than Karl's emotion of 
the previous day had allowed him to be : and it bade her 
adieu for ever. Colonel Cleeve sent both notes to his daughter, 
and then lost himself in a reverie : from which he was aroused 
by the entrance of his wife, 


"Lucinda, that is really a most superior young man: high- 
principled and true. A pity but he had rank and money." 

"Who is a superior young man?" asked Mrs, Cleeye, not 
having seen the letter. 

" Lieutenant Andinnian." 



'The June sun rode gaily in the bright-blue skies, and the sweet 
June roses were in bloom. Mrs. Andinnian, quite unconscious 
of the blight that had fallen on her younger son, was placidly 
making the home happiness — as she believed — of the elder. 
Had she known of Karl's sorrow, she would have given to it 
but a passing thought. 

There was peace in the home again. The vexation regarding 
their young lady-neighbour had long since subsided in Mrs. 
Andinnian's mind. She had spoken seriously and sharply to 
Adam upon the point — which was an entirely new element in 
his experience ; telling him how absurd and unsuitable it was 
that he, one of England's future baronets, and three-and-thirty 
years of age already, should waste his hours in frivolous talk 
with a girl beneath him. Adam heard her in silence, smiling 
a little, and quite docile. He rejoined in a joking tone. 

*^A11 this means, I suppose, mother, that you would not 
tolerate Miss Turner as my wife ? " 

" Never, Adam ; never. You would have to choose between 
myself and her. And I have been a loving mother to you." 

*^All right. Don't worry yourself. There's no necessity 
for it." 

From this time — the conversation was in April, at the close 
of Karl's short visit to them — the trouble ceased. Adam 
Andinnian either did not meet the girl so much : or he timed 
his interviews more cautiously. In May Miss Turner went 
away on a visit : Adam seemed to have dismissed her from his 
mind : and Mrs. Andinnian forgot that she had ever been 


Never a word of invitation had come from Sir Joseph. 
During this same month, May, Mrs. Andinnian, her patience 
worn out, had written to Foxwood, proffering a visit for herself 
and Adam. At the end of a fortnight, she received an answer. 
A few words of shaky writing, in Sir Joseph's own hand. He 
had been very ill, he told her, which was the cause of his delay 
in replying, as he wished to write himself. Now he was some- 
what better, and gaining strength. When able to entertain her 
and her son — which he hoped would be soon — he should send 
for them. It would give him great pleasure to receive them, 
and to make the acquaintance of his heir. 

That letter had reached Mrs. Andinnian the first day of June. 
Some three weeks had elapsed since, and no summons had 
come. She was growing a little impatient again. Morning 
after morning, whilst she dressed, the question always crossed 
her mind : will there be a letter to-day from Foxwood ? On 
this lovely June morning, with the scent of the midsummer 
flowers wafted in through the open window, it filled her mind 
as usual. 

They breakfasted early. Adam's active garden habits in- 
duced it. When Mrs. Andinnian descended, he was in the 
breakfast-room, scanning the pages of some new work on horti- 
culture. He wore a new suit of grey, and looked well and 
handsome ; unusually so in his mother's eyes, for he had only 
returned the past evening from a few days' absence. 

'* Good morning, Adam." 

He advanced to kiss his mother : his even white teeth and 
his grey eyes as beautiful as they could well be. Mrs. Andin- 
nian's fond and admiring heart leaped up with a bound. 

" The nonsense people write whose knowledge is superficial ! " 
he said, with a gay laugh. " I have detected half-a-dozen errors 
in this book already." 

'' No doubt. What book is it ? 

He held it out to her, open at the title-page. '' I bought it 
yesterday at a railway-stall." 

" What a nice morning it is ! " observed Mrs. Andinnian, as 
she busied herself with the cups. 

" Lovely. It is Midsummer Eve. I have been out at work 
these two hours." 


**Adam, I think that must be the postman's step," she 
remarked presently. *'Some one is going round to the door." 

" From Karl, perhaps," he said, with indifference, for he had 
plunged into his book again. 

Hewitt came m ; one letter only on the silver waiter. He 
presented it to his master. Adam, absorbed in his pages, took 
the letter and laid it on the table without looking up. Some- 
thing very hke a cry from his mother startled him. She had 
caught up the letter and was gazing at the address. For it was 
one that had never before been seen there. 

'^ Sir Adam Andinnian, Bart." 

" Oh, my son ! It has come at last." 

^* IV/iaf has come ? " cried he, in surprise. " Oh, I see. Sir 
Joseph must be dead. Poor old fellow ! What a sad thing 1 '^ 

But it was not exactly Sir Joseph's death that Mrs. Andinnian 
had been thinking of. The letter ran as follows : — 

Foxiuood^ June 22nd, 
, *' Dear Sir, 

'' I am truly sorry to have to inform you of the 
death of my old friend, and many years' patient, Sir Joseph 
Andinnian. He had been getting better slowly, but we thought 
surely ; and his death at last was sudden and quite unexpected. 
I have taken upon myself to give a few necessary orders in 
anticipation of your arrival here. 

'' I am, Sir Adam, very sincerely yours, 

"William Moore. 
" Sir Adam Andinnian^ 

Breakfast went on almost in silence. Mrs. Andinnian was 
deep in thoughts and plans. Sir Adam, poring over his book 
whilst he ate, did not seem to be at all impressed with the 
importance of having gained a title. 

" When shall you start, Adam ? " 

" Start ? " he returned, glancing up. " For Foxwood ? Oh, 
in a day or two." 

"/^/ a day 07' two T^ repeated his mother, with surprised 
emphasis. " Why, what do you mean ? " 

*' Just that, mother." 


" You should be off in half-an-hour. You must be, Adam." 

'^ Not I. There's no need of hurry," he added, with careless 

*^ But there is need of it," she answered. 

*^ Why? Had Sir Joseph been dying and wished to see me, 
I would not have lost a single moment : but it is nothing of 
the kind, poor man. He is dead^ unfortunately : and, there- 
fore, no necessity for haste exists." 

**Some one ought to be there." 

" Not at all. The Mr. Moore who writes — some good old 
village doctor, I conclude — will see to things." 

'' But why should you not go at once, Adam ? " she persisted. 

" What is preventing you ? " 

** Nothing prevents me. Except that I hate to be hurried 
off anywhere. And I — I only came back to the garden yesterday." 

*'The garden! — that's what it is," resentfully thought Mrs. 
Andinnian. He read on in silence. 

** Adam, if you do not go, I shall." 

" Do, mother," he said, readily. " Go, if you would like to 
do so, and take Hewitt. I hate details of all kinds, you know; 
and if you will go, and take them on yourself, I shall be truly 
obliged. Write me word which day the funeral is fixed for, and 
I will come for it." 

Perhaps in all her life Mrs. Andinnian had never resented 
anything in her favourite son as she was resenting this. She 
had looked forward to this accession of fortune with an eager 
anxiety which none could suspect : and now that it had come, 
he was treating it with this cool indifference ! Many a time 
and oft had she indulged a vision of the day when she should 
drive in to take possession of Foxwood, her handsome son, the 
inheritor, seated beside her. 

*^ One of my sons ought to be there," she said, coldly. " If 
you will not go, Adam, I shall telegraph to Karl." 

"• I will telegraph for you," he replied, with provoking good- 
humour. " Karl will be the very fellow : he has ten times the 
head for business that I have. Let him act for me in all things, 
exactly as though it were he who succeeded : I give him carte 
blanche. It will save all trouble to you." 

Sir Adam Andinnian declined to be shaken out of his resolve 


and his inertness. In what might be called a temper, Mrs. 
Andinnian departed straight from the breakfast-table for the 
railway-station, to take the train. Her son duly accompanied 
her to see her safely away : she had refused to take Hewitt : 
and then he despatched a telegram to Karl, telling him to join 
his mother at Foxwood. Meantime, while these, the lady and 
the message, went speeding on their respective ways, the new 
baronet beguiled the day's passing hours amongst his flowers, 
and shot a few small birds that were interfering with some 
choice seedlings just springing up. 

Lieutenant Andinnian received the message promptly. But, 
following the fashion much in vogue amidst telegraphic messages, 
it was not quite as clear as daylight. Karl read that Sir Joseph 
was dead, that his mother was either going or gone to Foxwood ; 
that she was waiting for him, and he was to join her without 
delay. But whether he was to join her at her own home and 
accompany her to Foxwood, or whether he was to proceed 
direct to Foxwood, lay in profound obscurity. The fault was 
not in Sir Adam's wording ; but in the telegraph people's care- 

** Now which is it that I am to do ?" debated Karl, puzzling 
over the sprawling words from divers points of view. The 
words did not help him : and he decided to proceed home ; 
he thought his mother must be waiting for him there. " It 
must be that," he said : ^* Adam has gone hastening on to Fox- 
wood, and the mother is waiting for me to accompany her. 
Poor Uncle Joseph ! And to think that I never once saw him 
m life ! " 

Mr. Andinnian had no difficulty in obtaining leave of absence : 
and he started on his journey. He was somewhat changed. 
Though only a month had gone by since the severance from 
Lucy Cleeve, the anguish had told upon him. His brother- 
officers, noting the sad abstraction he was often plunged in, the 
ultra-strict fulfilment of his duties, as if life were made up oi 
parades and drill and all the rest of it, told him in joke that he 
was getting into a bad way. They knew nothing of what had 
happened ; of the fresh spring love that had made his heart and 
this earth alike a paradise, or of its abrupt ending. " My poor 

within the Maze. 3 


horse has had to be shot, you know" — which was a fact; "and 
I can't forget him," Mr. Andinnian one day repUed, reciprocating 
the joke. 

' The shades of the midsummer night were gathering as Karl 
n eared his mother's house. He walked up from the terminus, 
choosing the field-way, and leaving his portmanteau to be sent 
after him. The glowing fires of the departed sun had left the 
west, but streaks of gold yet illumined the heavens. The air 
was still and soft, the night balmy; a few stars shone in the 
calm blue firmament : the moon was well above the horizon. 
This pathway through the fields ran parallel with the high-road. 
As Mr. Andinnian paced it, his umbrella in his hand, there 
suddenly broke upon his ears a sort of uproar, marring the 
peaceful stillness of the night. Some commotion, as of a mass 
of people, seemed to be approaching. 

"What is it, I wonder?" he said to himself: and for a 
moment or two he halted and stared over the border of the 
field and through the intervening hedge. By what his eyes 
could make out, he thought some policemen were in front, 
walking with measured tread ; behind came a confused mob, 
following close on their heels ; but the view was too uncertain 
to show this distinctly. 

" Some poor prisoner they are bringing in from the country," 
thought Mr. Andinnian, as the commotion passed on towards 
the town, and he continued his way. 

" This is a true Midsummer-Eve night," he said to himself, 
when the hum and the tramping had died away, and he glanced 
at the weird shadows that stood out from hedges and trees. 

"Just the night for ghosts to come abroad, and Stay, 

though : it is not on Midsummer-Eve that ghosts come, I 
think. What is the popular superstition for the night? Young 
girls go out and see the shadowy forms of their future husbands ? 
Is that it ? I don't remember. What matter if I did ? Such 
romance has died out for me." 

He drew near his home. On the left lay the cottage of Mr. 
Turner. Its inmates seemed to be unusually astir within it, for 
lights shone from nearly every window. A few yards further 
Karl turned into his mother's grounds by a private gate. 

Their own house looked, on the contrary, all in darkness. 


Karl could not see that so much as the hall-lamp was lighted. 
A sudden conviction flashed over him that he was wrong, after 
all ; that it was to Foxwood he ought to have gone. 

^^ My mother and Adam and all the world are off to it, no 
doubt," he said, as he looked up at the windows, after knocking 
at the door. " Deuce take the telegraph ! '^ 

The door was opened by Hewitt : Hewitt with a candle in 
his hand. That is, the door was drawn back a few inches, and 
the man's face appeared in the aperture. Karl was seized with 
a sudden fear : he had never seen, in all his life, a face blanched 
as that was, or one so full of horror. 

" What is the matter ? " he involuntarily exclaimed, under his 

Ay, what was the matter ? Hewitt, the faithful serving-man 
of many years, threw up his hands when he saw Karl, and cried 
aloud before he replied. His master. Sir Adam, had shot 
Martin Scott. 

Karl Andinnian stood against the door-post inside as he 
listened ; stood as one bereft of motion. For a moment he 
could ask no questions : but it crossed his mind that Hewitt 
must have gone mad, and was telling some fable of an excited 

Not so. It was all too true. Adam Andinnian had de- 
liberately shot the young medical student, Martin Scott. And 
Hewitt, poor Hewitt, had been a witness to the deed. 

" Is he dead ? " gasped Karl. And it was the first word he 

" Stone dead, sir. The shot entered his heart. 'Twas done at 
sunset. He was carried into Mr. Turner's place, and is lying there." 

A confused remembrance of the lights he had seen arose to 
Karl's agitated brain. He pressed his hand to his brow and 
stared at Hewitt. For a moment or two, he thought he himself 
must be going mad. 

" And where is he — my brother ? " 

" The police have taken him away, Mr. Karl. Two of them 
happened to be passing about the time of the commotion." 

And Karl knew that the prisoner he had met in custody, with 
the guardians of the law around and the mob behind, was his 
brother, Sir Adam Andinnian. 




The tidings of the unfortunate act committed by Adam Andin* 
nian (most people said it must have been an accident) were 
bruited abroad far and wide. Circumstances conspired to give 
to it an unusual notoriety; and for more than the traditional nine 
days it remained a wonder in men's minds. Sir Adam's recent 
accession to the family honours ; the utter want of sufficient 
motive ; the name of the young lady said to be mixed up with 
it : all this tended to arouse public interest. That a gendeman 
of peaceful tendencies, an educated man and new baronet 
should take up his gun and shoot another in calm deliberation, 
was almost incredible. All sorts of reports, true and untrue, 
were floating about. Public interest was not allowed to flag. 
Before a sufficient space of time had elapsed for that, the period 
for the trial came on. 

Sir Adam Andinnian was not fated, as too many prisoners 
are, to languish out months of suspense in prison. The calamity 
occurred towards the end of June; the assizes were held in 
July. Almost before his final examination before the magis- 
trates had concluded, or the coroner's inquest (protracted after 
the fashion of inquests, but in this case without any sufficient 
reason) had returned its verdict, the summer assizes were upon 
the county. The magistrates had committed Sir Adam Andin- 
nian to take his trial for wilful murder; the coroner's jury for 

But now — what effect does the reader suppose this most 
awful blow must have had on Mrs. Andinnian ? If any one 
ever deserved commiseration it was surely she. To every 
mother it would have been terrible. To her it was worse than 
terrible. She loved her son with the love only lavished on an 
idol. She had gone forth to his new inheritance in all the pride 
of her fond heart, counting every day, ay, and every hour, until 
he should gladden it with his presence. If any mortal man 
stood on a pinnacle just then above his fellows in her estima- 
tion, that man was her handsome son, Sir Adam Andinnian. 


And oh ! the desolation that fell upon her when the son for 
whom she cared not, Karl, arrived at Foxwood, to break the 
news to her. 

And Karl ? Hardly less keen, if any, was the blow upon 
him. Until then he did not know how very warm and true was 
his affection for his brother. Staggering back to the town the 
same night after his interview with Hewitt — and it seemed to 
Karl Andinnian that he really did stagger, under the weight of 
his affliction — he found the prisoner at the police-station, and 
was allowed to see him. Adam did not appear to feel his 
position at all. Karl thought the passion — or whatever other 
ill-feeling it might have been that prompted him to the fatal 
deed — was swaying him still. He was perfectly calm and self- 
possessed, and sat quite at ease whilst the chief of the station 
took down sundry reports in writing from the policeman who 
brought in the prisoner. 

^* I have done nothing that I regret," he said to Karl. " The 
man has only got his deserts. I should do it again to-morrow 
under the same provocation." 

**But, Adam, think of the consequences to yourself," gasped 
Karl, dismayed at this dangerous admission in the hearing of 
the officers. 

"Oh, as to consequences, I shall be quite ready to take 
them,^ returned the prisoner, drawing himself up haughtily. 
*' I never yet did anything that I was ashamed to acknowledge 

The inspector ceased writing for a moment and turned round. 
" Sir Adam Andinnian, I would advise you for your own sake 
to be silent. Least said is soonest mended, you know, sir, A 
good rule to remember in all cases." 

^' Very good indeed. Wall," readily assented Sir Adam — who 
had previously been on speaking terms with the inspector. 
" But if you think I shall attempt to disown what I have done, 
you are mistaken." 

** It must have been an accident," urged poor Karl, in low 
tones, almost as though he were suggesting it. *' I told 
Hewitt so." 

" Hewitt knows better. He saw me take up the gun, level 
it, and shoot him," was the reply of Sir Adam, asserted openly, 


^^ Look here, Wall. The fellow courted his fate ; courted it. 
I had assured him that if he dared to offend in a certain way 
again, I would shoot him as I would shoot a dog. He set me 
at defiance and did it. Upon that, I carried out my promise 
and shot him. I could not break my word, you know." 

Just then an idea crossed the inspector's mind — as he related 
afterwards — that Sir Adam Andinnian was not in his right senses. 

^' And the mother?" breathed Karl. 

^^ There s the worst of it," returned wSir Adam, his tone quickly 
changing to grave concern. " For her sake I could almost 
regret it. You must go off to Foxwood to-morrow, Karl, and 
break it to her.*' 

What a task it was ! Never in all Karl's life had one like 
unto it been imposed upon him. With the early morning he 
started for Foxwood j and it seemed to him that he would 
rather have started to his grave. 

It was perhaps somewhat singular that during the short period 
of time intervening before the trial, Lieutenant Andinnian 
should have been gazetted to his company. It gave Karl no 
pleasure. The rise he had hoped for, that was to have brought 
him so much satisfaction, could now be productive only of pain. 
If the trial resulted in the awful sentence — Condemnation — 
Karl would not of course continue in the army. No, nor could 
he with any inferior result ; save and except acquittal. Karl 
felt this. It was a matter that admitted of no alternative. To 
remain one amidst his fellow-officers with his only brother dis- 
graced and punished, was not to be thought of And Karl 
would rather have remained the nameless lieutenant than have 
been gazetted captain. 

The truest sympathy was felt for him, the utmost considera- 
tion. Leave of absence was accorded him at his request, until 
the result of the trial should be known. He wanted his liberty 
to stand by his brother, and to make efforts for the defence. 
Make efforts ! When the accused persisted in openly avowing 
himself guilty, what efforts could be made with any hope of 
success ? 

One of the hottest days that July has ever given us was that 
of the trial. The county town was filled from end to end ; 
thousands of curious people had thronged in, hoping to secure 


a place in court ; or, at least, to obtain a sight of the prisoner. 
It was reported that but for the earnest pleadings of his mother 
there would have been no trial — Sir Adam would have pleaded 
guilty. It was whispered that she, the hitherto proud, over- 
bearing, self-contained woman, went down on her knees to en- 
treat him not to bring upon his head the worst and most extreme 
sentence known to England's law — as the said pleading guilty 
would have brought — but to give himself a chance of a more 
lenient sentence : perhaps of an acquittal. It was said that 
Captain Andinnian would have taken his place in the dock to 
countenance and stand by his brother, but was not permitted 
to do so. 

The trial was unusually short for one involving murder, and 
unusually interesting. Immediately after the judge had taken 
his seat in the morning, the prisoner was brought in. The 
crowded court, who had just risen to do homage to the judge, 
rose again amidst stir and excitement. Strangers, straining 
their eager eyes, saw, perhaps with a momentary feeling of sur- 
prise, as grand a gentleman as any present. A tall, command- 
ing, handsome man, with a frank expression of countenance 
when he smiled, but haughty in repose; his white teeth, that he 
showed so much, and his grey eyes singularly beautiful. He 
wore deep mourning for his uncle. Sir Joseph ; and bowed to 
the judge with as much stately ceremony as though he were 
bowing before the queen. On one of his fingers flashed a ring 
of rare beauty : an opal set round with diamonds. It had 
descended to him from his father. Captain Andinnian, in deep 
mourning also, sat at the table with the solicitors. 

The chief witnesses, it may be said the only ones of con- 
sequence, were Thomas Hewitt the man-servant, and Miss 
Rose Turner. A surgeon testified to the cause of death — a 
shot through the heart — and a policeman or two gave some 
little evidence. Altogether not much. The story that came 
out to the world through the speeches of counsel, including those 
for the defence as well as for the prosecution, may be summed 
up as follows : 

Mr. Andinnian (now Sir Adam) had a great friendship for 
a young lady-neighbour who lived close by, with whom he and 
his mother had been intimate^ and for whose best interests he 


had a lively regard. This was a Miss Rose Turner : a young 
lady (the counsel emphatically said) worthy of every considera- 
tion, and against whom not a breath of slight had been, or could 
be whispered. Some few months ago Miss Turner was intro- 
duced at a friend's house, to a medical student (the deceased) 
named Martin Scott. It had been ascertained, from inquiries 
set on foot since Martin Scott's death, that this man's private 
pursuits and character were not at all reputable ; but that was 
of course (the counsel candidly added) no reason why he should 
have been killed. In spite of Miss Turner's strong objection, 
Martin Scott persisted in offering her his attentions ; and two 
or three times, to the young lady's great disgust, he had forcibly 
kissed her. These facts became known to Mr. Andinnian; 
and he, being of a hasty, passionate nature, unfortunately took 
up the matter warmly. Indignant that the young lady should 
have been subjected to anything so degrading, he sought an 
interview with the offender, and told him that if ever he dared 
to repeat the insult to Miss Turner, he, Mr. Andinnian, would 
shoot him. It appeared, the counsel added, that Mr. Andinnian 
avowed this in unmistakable terms; that the unfortunate de- 
ceased fully understood him to mean it, and that Mr. Andinnian 
would certainly do what he said if provoked. Proof of which 
would be given. In spite of all this, Martin Scott braved his 
fate the instant he had an opportunity. On the fatal evening, 
June the twenty-third,. Miss Turner having only just returned 
home from an absence of some weeks, Martin Scott made his 
appearance at her uncle's house, followed her into the garden, 
and there, within sight of Mr. Andinnian (or, rather. Sir Adam 
Andinnian, for he had then succeeded to his title, said the 
counsel, stopping to correct himself), he rudely took the young 
lady in his arms, and kissed her several times. Miss Turner, 
naturally startled and indignant, broke from him, and burst into 
a fit of hysterical weeping. Upon this, the prisoner caught up 
his loaded gun and shot him dead : the gun, unhappily, lying 
close to his hand, for he had been shooting birds during the 
day. Such was the substance of the story, as told to the court. 
Thomas Hewitt, the faithful serving-man, who deposed that 
he had lived in the Andinnian family for many years, and who 
could hardly speak for the grief within him, was examined. 


Alas ! he was called for the prosecution : for all his evidence 
told against his master, not for him. 

*^That evening," he said, *^ about eight o'clock, or from that 
to half-past, I had occasion to see my master, Sir Adam, and 
went across the garden and beyond the shrubbery to find him. 
He was standing by the gate that divides his grounds from Mr. 
Turner's ; and all in the same moment, as I came in view, 
there seemed to be a scuffle going on in Mr. Turner's path by 
the rose bushes. Just at first I did not discern who was there, 
for the setting sun, then going below the horizon, shone full in 
my face. I soon saw it was Miss Turner and Martin Scott. 
Scott seemed to be holding her against her will. She broke 
away from him, angry and sobbing, and ran towards my master, 
as if wanting him to protect her." 

"Well? — go on," cried the examining counsel, for the 
witness had stopped. " What did you see next ? " 

"Sir Adam caught up his gun from the garden-seat close by, 
where it was lying, presented it at Martin Scott, and fired. 
The young man sprang up into the air, a foot or two, and then 
fell. It all passed in a moment. I ran to assist him, and 
found he was dead. That is all I know." 

But the witness was not to be released just yet, in spite of 
this intimation. *^ Wait a bit," said the counsel for the prose- 
cution. " You saw the prisoner take up the gun, point it at 
the deceased and fire. Was all this done deliberately ? " 

" It was not done hurriedly, sir.'' 

"Answer my question, witness. Was it deliberately done ? " 

"I think it was. His movements were slow. Perhaps," 
added poor Hewitt, willing to suggest a loophole of escape for 
his master, "perhaps Sir Adam had forgotten the gun was 
loaded, and only fired it off to frighten Scott. It was in the 
morning that he had been shooting the birds : hours before ; 
he could easily have forgotten that it was loaded. My master 
is not a cruel man, but a humane one." 

"How came he to leave the gun out there for so many 
hours, if he had done with it ? " asked the judge. 

" I don't know, my lord. I suppose he forgot to bring it in 
when he came in to dinner. Sir Adam is naturally very car^*- 
Jess indeed." 


One of the jury spoke. *^ Witness, what was it that you 
wanted with your master when you went out that evening ? " 

"A telegram had come for him, sir, and I went to take it 
to him." 

*' What did the telegram contain? Do you know?" 

'^ I believe it came from Foxwood, sir." 

" From Foxwood ? " 

^'The telegram was from my mother, Mrs. Andinnian," 
spoke up the prisoner, in his rather loud, but perfectly calm 
voice, thereby electrifying the court. " It was to tell me she 
had arrived safely at Foxwood Court : and that the day for my 
uncle Sir Joseph's funeral was not then arranged." 

The prisoner's solicitor, in a great commotion, leaned over 
and begged him in a whisper to be silent. 

" Nay," said the prisoner aloud, " if any information that I 
can give is required, why should I be silent ? " Surely there 
had never before been a prisoner like unto this one ! 

The next witness was Rose Turner. She was accompanied 
by her uncle and a sohcitor ; was dressed handsomely in black, 
and appeared to be in a state of extreme nervous agitation. 
Her face was ashy pale, her manner shrinking, and her voice 
was so low that its accents could not always be caught. In 
the simple matter of giving her name, she had to be asked it 
three times. 

Her evidence told little more than had been told by the 
opening counsel. 

Mr. Scott had persecuted her with his attentions, she said. 
He wanted her to promise to marry him when he should be 
established in practice, but she wholly refused, and she begged 
him to go about his business and leave her alone. He would 
not ; and her aunt had rather encouraged Mr. Scott. They 
did not know what sort of private character he bore, but 
supposed, of course, it Avas good. Martin Scott had twice 
kissed her against her will, very much to her own annoyance ; 
she had told Mr. Andinnian of it — who had always been very 
kind to her, quite like a protector. It made Mr. Andinnian 
very angry ; and he had then threatened Martin Scott that if 
he ever again attempted to molest her, he would shoot him. 
She was sure that Martin Scott understood that Mr. Andinnian 


was not joking, but meant what he said. So far the witness 
spoke with tolerable readiness : but after this not a word would 
she say that was not drawn from her. Her answers were given 
shrinkingly, and some of them with evident reluctance. 

" You went out on a visit in May : where was it to ? " 
questioned the counsel. 

" Birmingham." 

" How long did you stay there ? " 

^^ I was away from home five weeks altogether." 

" When did you return home ? You must speak a little 
louder, if you please." 

^* On the evening of the twenty-second of June." 

'^That was the day before the murder?" 

" It was not a murder," returned the witness, with emotion. 
'^ Sir Adam Andinnian was quite justified in what he did.'' 

The judge interposed. " You are not here to state opinions, 
young lady, but to answer questions." The counsel resumed. 

"Did the deceased, Martin Scott, come to your uncle's 
residence on the evening of the twenty-third ? " 

'' Yes. My uncle was at home ill that evening, and he kept 
Mr. Scott in conversation, so that he had no opportunity of 
teasing me." 

** You v/ent later into the garden ? " 

**Yes. Martin Scott must have seen me pass the window, 
for I found he was following me out. I saw Sir Adam stand- 
ing at his gate, and went towards him." 

" With what motive did you go ? " 

A pause. " I intended to tell him that Mr. Scott was there." 

*'Had you seen Sir Adam at all since you came home the 
previous evening ? " 

Whether the young lady said Yes or No to this question 
could not be told. Her answer was inaudible. 

" Now this won't do," cried the counsel, losing patience. 
*' You must speak so that the jury can hear you, witness ; and 
you must be good enough to lift your head. What have you to 
be ashamed of ? " 

At this sting, a bright flush dyed the young lady's cheeks ; 
but she evidently did not think of resisting. Lifting her face, 
she spoke somewhat louder. 


^^ I had seen Sir Adam in the morning when he was shooting 
the birds. I saw him again in the afternoon, and was talking 
with him for a few minutes. Not for long : some friends called 
on my aunt, and she sent for me in." 

"Was anything said about Martin Scott that day, between 
you and Sir Adam ? " 

*' Not a word. We did not so much as think of him." 

*^Why, then, were you hastening in the evening to tell Sir 
Adam that Scott was there ? " 

The witness hesitated and burst into tears. 

*' Of course it was a dreadful thing for me to do — as things 
have turned out. I had no ill thought in it. I was only going 
to tell him that Mr. Scott had come and was sitting with my 
uncle. There was nothing in that to make Sir Adam angry." 

^•You have not replied to my question. JV/ty did you 
hasten to tell Sir Adam ? " 

'^ There was no very particular cause. Before I left home in 
May, I had hoped Mr. Scott had ceased his visits : when I 
found, by his coming this evening, that he had not, I thought 
I would tell Sir Adam. W^e both disliked Martin Scott from 
his rudeness to me. I began to feel afraid of him again." 

"Afraid of what?" 

^^ Lest he should be rude to me as he had been before.'' 

" Allow me to ask — in a case of this sort, would it not have 
been your uncle's place to deal with Mr. Scott, rather than Sir 
Adam Andinnian's ? " 

The witness bent her head. Whilst the prisoner, without 
affording her time for any answer, again spoke up. 

'* When Martin Scott insulted Miss Turner before, I had 
particularly requested her to inform me at once if he ever 
attempted such a thing again. I also requested her to let me 
know of it if he resumed his visits at her uncle's house. I 
wished to protect Miss Turner as efficiently as I would have 
protected a sister." 

The prisoner was ordered to be silent. Miss Turner's 
examination went on. 

^* You went out on this evening to speak to the prisoner, and 
Martin Scott followed you. What next ? " 

*^ Martin Scott caught me up when I was close to the bed of 


rose bushes : that is, about half-way between the house and the 
gate where Sir Adam was standing. He began reproaching 
me ; saying I had not given him a word of welcome after my 
long absence, and did I think he was going to stand it. Before 
—before " 

^' Before what ? Why do you hesitate ? " 

The witness's tears burst forth afresh : her voice was pitiable 
in its distress. A thrill of sympathy moved the whole court ; 
not one in it but felt for her. 

*^ Before I was aware, Martin Scott had caught me in his 
arms, and was kissing me. I struggled to get away from him, 
and ran towards Sir Adam Andinnian for shelter. It was then 
he took up his gun." 

"What did Sir Adam say? '^ 

"Nothing. He put me behind him with one hand, and 
fired. I recollect seeing Hewitt standing beside me then, and 
for a few moments I recollected no more. At first I did not 
know any harm was done : only when I saw Hewitt kneeling in 
the path over Martin Scott." 

"What did the prisoner do, then ? " 

"He put the gun back on the seat again, quite quietly, and 
walked down the path towards where they were. My uncle 
and aunt came running out, and — and that ended it.'* 

Perhaps in compassion, only two or three further questions 
of unimportance were asked her. She had told all she knew 
of the calamity, she said ; and was allowed to retire : leaving 
the audience most favourably impressed with the pretty looks, 
the innocence, and the modesty of Miss Rose Turner. 

A young man named Wharton was called ; an assistant to a 
chemist, and a friend of the late Martin Scott. He deposed 
to hearing Scott speak in the spring — he thought it was towards 
the end of April — of Mr. Andinnian's threat to shoot him. 
The witness added that he was sure Martin Scott took the 
threat seriously, and knew that Mr. Andinnian meant it so ; 
though it was possible that with the lapse of weeks the impres- 
sion might have worn away in Scott's mind. He was the last 
witness called on either side ; and the two leading counsel then 
addressed the jury. 

The judge summed up carefully and dispassionately, but not 


favourably. As many said afterwards, he was ''dead against 
the prisoner." The jury remained in deUberation fifteen 
minutes only, and then came back with their verdict 

" Wilful murder : but with a very strong recommendation to 

The judge then asked the prisoner if he had anything to urge 
against the sentence of Death that was about to be passed 
upon him. 

Nothing but this, the prisoner replied, speaking courteously 
and quietly. That he believed he had done only his duty ; 
that Martin Scott had deliberately and defiantly rushed upon 
his own fate : and that if young, innocent and refined ladies 
were to be insulted by reprobate men with impunity, the sooner 
the country went back to a state of barbarism the better. To 
this the judge replied, that if for trifling causes men might with 
impunity murder others in cold blood, the country would 
already be in a state of barbarism, without going back to it. 

But the trial was not to conclude without one startling element 
of sensation. The judge had put the black cap on his head, 
when a tall, proud-looking, handsome lady stepped forward 
and demanded to say a word in stay of the sentence. It was 
Mrs. Andinnian. Waving the ushers away who would have 
removed her, she was, perhaps in very astonishment, allowed to 

Her son had inherited an uncontrollable temper, she said ; 
her temper. If anything occurred greatly to exasperate him 
(but this was very rare) his transitory passion was akin to 
madness. In fact it was madness for the short time it lasted, 
which was never more than a few moments. To punish him 
by death for any act committed by him during this irresponsible 
time would be, she urged, murder. Murder upon him. 

Only these few words did she speak. Not passionately; 
calmly and respectfully ; and with her dark eyes fixed on the 
judge. She then bowed to the judge and retired. The judge 
inclined his head gravely to her in return, and proceeded with 
his sentence. 

Death. But the strong recommendation of the jury should 
be forwarded to the proper quarter. 

The judge, as was learnt later^ seconded this recommendation 


warmly : in fact, the words he used in passing sentence as good 
as conveyed an intimation that there might be no execution. 

Thus ended the famous trial. Within a week afterwards the 
fiat was known : and the sentence was commuted into penal 
servitude for life. 

Penal servitude for life ! Think of the awful blight to a man 
in the flower of his age and in the position of Adam Andinnian ! 
And all through one moment's mad act ! 



In an invalid's chair by the side of a fire, at midday, reclined 
Lucy Cleeve. Her face was delicate and thin ; her sweet 
brown eyes had almost an anxious look in them ; the white 
wrapper she wore was not whiter than her cheeks. Mrs. 
Cleeve was in the opposite chair reading. At the window sat 
Miss Blake, working some coloured silks on a white satin 

As Mrs. Cleeve turned the page, she chanced to look up, 
and saw in her daughter a symptom of shivering. 

*^ Lucy ! My darling, surely you are not shivering again ! " 

'*N — o, I think not," was the hesitating answer. *'The fire 
is getting low^ mamma." 

Mrs. Cleeve stirred the fire, and then brought a warm silk 
shawl, and folded it over Lucy's shoulders. And yet the 
August sun was shining on the world, and the blue skies were 
dark with heat. 

The cruel pain that the separation from Karl Andinnian had 
brought to Lucy was worse than any one thought for. She 
was perfectly silent over it, bearing all patiently-, and so gave 
no sign of the desolation within. Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve 
said in private how reasonable Lucy was, and how well she was 
forgetting the young man. Miss Blake felt sure that she had 
never really cared for him : that the love had been all child's 
play. All through the month of June Lucy had gone about 
wherever they chose to take her : to flower-shows, and prome- 


nades, and dances, and picnics. She talked and laughed in . 
society as others did ; and no mortal wizard or witch could 
have divined she was suffering from the effects of a love-fever, 
that had been too rudely checked. 

Very shortly she was to suffer from a different fever : one 
that sometimes proves to be just as difficult of cure. In spite 
of the gaiety and the going-out, Lucy seemed to be somewhat 
ailing. Her appetite failed, and she grew to feel tired at 
nothing. In July these symptoms had increased, and she was 
palpably ill. The medical man called in pronounced Miss 
Cleeve to be suffering from a slight fever, combined with 
threatenings of ague. The slight fever grew more serious, and 
then became intermittent. Intervals of shivering would be 
succeeded by intervals of burning heat ; and they in their turn 
by intense prostration. The doctor said Miss Cleeve must 
have taken cold ; probably, he thought, had sat on the damp 
grass at some picnic. Lucy was very obedient. She lay in bed 
when they told her to lie, and got up when they told her to get 
up, and took all the medicine ordered without a word, and 
tried to take the food. The doctor, at length, with much self- 
gratulation, declared the fever at an end ; and that Miss Cleeve 
might come out of her bedroom for some hours in the day. 
Miss Cleeve did come : but somehow she did not gain strength, 
or improve as she ought to have done. Seasons of coldness 
would be upon her still ; the white cheeks would sometimes be 
bright with a very suspicious-looking hectic. It would take 
time to re-establish her, said the doctor with a sigh : and that 
was the best he could make of it. 

Whether Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve would have chosen to 
speak much before their daughter of the lover she had been 
obliged to resign, cannot be said. Most probably not. But 
circumstances over which they had no control led to its being 
done. When, towards the close of June, the news of that 
strange tragedy enacted by Adam Andinnian broke upon the 
world, all the world was full of it. Not a visitor, calling to see 
them, but went over the wonders of the tale in Lucy's hearing, 
and, as it seemed to her, for her own special benefit. The 
entirely unprovoked (as was at first said and supposed) nature 
of the crime ; the singular fact that it should have been com- 


niitted the very day of his assuming his rank in the baronetage 
of* the kingdom ; the departure of Mrs. Andinnian on the 
journey that he ought to have taken, and the miserable thought, 
so full of poignancy to the Andinnian family, that if he had 
gone, the calamity could not have happened ; the summons to 
the young lieutenant at Winchester, his difficulty with the tele- 
gram, and his arrival at night to find what had happened at 
the desolate house ! All these facts, and very many more 
details, some true, some untrue, were brought before Lucy day 
after day. To escape them was impossible, unless she had shut 
herself up from society. No one had the least suspicion that 
the name of Andinnian was more than any other name to Lucy 
Cleeve. It was subsequent to this, you of course understand, 
that she became ill. During this period, she was only somewhat 
ailing, and was going about just as other people went. 

The subject — it has been already said — did not die out 
quickly. Before it was allowed to do so, there came the trial \ 
and that and its proceedings kept it alive for many a day more. 
But that the matter altogether bore an unusual interest, and 
that a great deal of what is called romance, by which public 
imagination is fed, encompassed it, was undeniable. The step 
in rank attained by Lieutenant Andinnian, his captaincy, was 
discussed as though no man had ever taken it before. So that, 
long ere the period now arrived at, August, Colonel and Mrs. 
Cleeve talked of the Andinnian affairs before their daughter 
with as little thought of reticence as they would have given to 
the most common questions of everyday life, and perhaps had 
nearly forgotten that there had ever been a cause why they 
should observe it. 

A word of Miss Blake. That the perfidy— she so looked 
upon it— of Lieutenant Andinnian in regard to herself, was a 
very bitter blow and tried her heart almost as the separation 
was trying Lucy's, may at once be admitted. Nothing, in the 
world or out of it, would have persuaded her that the young 
man did not at an early period love her, tliat he would have 
ultimately married her but for Lucy Cleeve's stepping in between 
them : and there lay a very angr}^ and bitter feeling against 
Lucy at the bottom of her heart. Not against Mr. Andinnian. 
The first shock over, she quite exonerated himj and threw all 

Within the Maze. 4 


the blame on Lucy. Is it not ever so — that woman, in a case 
of rivalry such as this, detests and misjudges the woman, and 
exempts the man ? 

But Miss Blake had a very strict conscience. In one of 
more gentle and tender nature, this would have been an ad- 
mirable thing ; in her, whose nature was exceptionally hard, it 
might cause her to grow into something undesirably stern. 
There was a chance for her yet. Underlying her every thought, 
word, action, her witty sallies in the ballroom, her prayers in 
church, remained ever the one faint hope — that Karl Andinnian 
would recover his senses and return to his first allegiance. If 
this ever came to pass, and she became Mrs. Andinnian, the 
little kindness existing in Theresa Blake's nature would assert 
itself. For though she was very just, or strove to be so, she 
was not kind. 

With this strict conscience. Miss Blake could not encourage 
her ill-feeling towards Lucy. On the contrary, she put it reso- 
lutely from her, and strove to go on her way in a duteous course 
of life and take up her own sorrow as a sort of appointed cross. 
All very well, this, so far as it went : but there was one dreadful 
want ever making itself heard — the want to fill the aching void 
in her lonely heart. After a disappointment to the affections, 
all women feel this want ; and none, unless they have felt it, 
can know or imagine the intense need of it. When the heart 
has been filled to the uttermost with a beloved object, every 
hour of the day gladdened with his sight, every dream of the 
night rejoicing with the thought of the morning's renewed 
meeting, and he is compulsorily snatched away for ever, the 
awful blank left is almost worse than death. Every aim and 
end and hope in life seems to have died suddenly, leaving only 
a vacuum : a vacuum that tells of nothing but pain. But for 
finding some object which the mind can take up and concen- 
trate itself upon, there are women who would go mad at these 
times. Miss Blake found hers in religion. 

Close upon that night when you saw Mr. Andinnian and 
Lucy Cleeve pacing together the garden of Mr. Blake's Rectory, 
Mr. Blake himself was seized with a fit. The attack was not in 
itself very formidable, but it bore threatening symptoms for the 
future. Perfect rest was enjoined by his medical attendants. 


together with absence from the scene of his labours. As soon 
therefore, as he could be moved, Mr. Blake departed ; leaving 
his church in the charge of his many-years curate, and of a 
younger man who was hastily engaged to assist him. This last 
was a stranger in the place, the Reverend Guy Cattacomb. 
Now, singular to say, but it was the fact, immediately after Mr. 
Blake's departure, the old curate was incapacitated by an attack 
of very serious illness, and he also had to go away for rest and 
change. This left the church wholly in the hands of the new 
man, Mr. Cattacomb. And this most zealous but rather mis- 
taken divine, at once set about introducing various changes in 
the service ; asking nobody's permission, or saying with your 
leave, or by your leave. 

The service had hitherto been conducted reverently, plainly, 
and with thorough efficiency. The singing was good; the 
singers — men and boys — wore white surplices : in short, all 
things were done decently and in order : and both Mr. Blake 
and his curate were excellent preachers. To the exceeding 
astonishment of the congregation, Mr. Cattacomb swooped 
down upon them the very first Sunday he was left to himself, 
with what they were pleased to term ^'vagaries." Vagaries they 
undoubtedly were, and not anly needless ones, but such as were 
calculated to bring a wholesome and sound Protestant church 
into disrepute. The congregation remonstrated, but the 
Reverend Guy persisted. The power, for the time being, lay 
in his hands, and he used it after his own heart. 

" Man, proud man, dressed in a little brief authority, 
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven 
As make the angels weep." 

How applicable are those lines of Shakspeare's to some oi 
the over-zealous young divines of the present day ! 

The progress of events in Mr. Blake's church need not be 
traced. It is enough to say that the Reverend Mr. Cattacomb 
— whose preaching was no better than the rest of him : a quarter- 
of-an-hour's rant, of which nobody could make any sense at all 
— emptied the church. Nearly all the old congregation left it. 
In their places a sprinkling of young people began to frequent 
it. We have had examples of these things. The Reverend 
Guy led, and his flock (almost the whole of them ardent young 


girls of no experience) followed. There were banners and pro- 
cessions, and images of saints and angels, and candlesticks and 
scrolls and artificial flowers, and thrown-up incense, and soft 
mutterings coming from nowhere, and all kinds of odd services 
at all kinds of hours, and risings-up and sittings-down, and 
bowings here and bowings there, and private confessions and 
public absolutions. Whether the worship, or in fact, the church, 
itself was meant to represent the Roman Catholic faith or the 
Protestant faith no living soul could tell. It was ultra-foolish — 
that is really the only name for it — and created some scandal. 
People took to speak of its frequenters slightingly and disre- 
spectfully as *' Mr. Cattacomb and his tail." The tail being the 
ardent young ladies who were seldom absent from his heels. 

Never one amongst them more ardent than Miss Blake. In 
the Reverend Guy and his ceremonies she found that outlet for 
the superfluous resources of her heart that Karl Andinnian had 
left so vacant. Ten times a day, if the church had ten services^ 
or scraps of services, was Miss Blake to be seen amidst the 
knot of worshippers. At early morning she went to Matins ; at 
sunset she went to Vespers. Once a week she was penned up 
in a close box which the Reverend Guy had put up as a con- 
fessional, confessing her sins. Some ladies chose the Reverend 
Mr. Cattacomb as their father-priest in this respect ; some chose 
his friend and coadjutor the Reverend Damon Pufl", a very 
zealous young man also, whom the former had appointed to his 
assistance. One confessional box was soon found quite insuffi- 
cient, and a second was introduced. Lookers-on began to 
wonder what would come next. Miss Blake did not neglect the 
claims of society in her new call to devotion ; so that, what with 
the world and what with the church, she had very little spare 
time on her hands. It was somewhat unusual to see her, as 
now, seated quietly at her needle. The work was some silken 
embroidery, destined to cover a cushion for Mr. Cattacomb's 
reverend knees to rest upon when at his private devotions. The 
needle came to a sudden pause. 

'^ I wonder if I am wrong," she exclaimed, after regarding 
attentively the leaf that had been growing under her hands. 
" Mrs. Cleeve, do you think the leaves to this rose should be 
brown ? I fancy they ought to be green," 


" Do not ask me anything about it, Theresa." 

Mrs. Cleeve's answer wore rather a resentful accent. The 
fact was, both herself and Colonel Cleeve were sadly vexed at 
Miss Blake's wholesale acceptance of the comprehensive pro- 
ceedings of Mr. Cattacomb. They had resigned their pew in 
church themselves, and now walked regularly to the beautiful 
services in the cathedral. Colonel Cleeve remonstrated with 
Miss Blake for what he called her folly. He told her that she 
was making herself ridiculous ; and that these innovations could 
only tend to bring religion itself into disrepute. It will 
therefore be understood that Mrs. Cleeve, knowing what the 
embroidery was destined for, did not regard it with approbation. 

" Theresa, if I thought my dear child here, Lucy, would ever 
make the spectacle of herself that you and those other girls are 
doing, I should weep with sorrow and shame." 

" Well, I'm sure ! '' cried Miss Blake. " Spectacle ! " 

**What else is it? To see a parcel of brainless girls running 
after Guy Cattacomb and that other one — Puff? Their 
mothers ought to know better than to allow it. God's pure 
and reverent and holy worship is one thing : this is quite 

Lucy asked for some of the cooling beverage that stood near 
them : her mouth felt always parched. As her mother brought 
it to her, Lucy pressed her hand and looked up in her face 
with a smile. Mrs. Cleeve knew that it was as much as to say, 
" There is no fear of w^." 

Colonel Cleeve came in as the glass was being put down. 
He looked somewhat anxiously at his daughter : he was begin- 
ning to be uneasy that she did not gain strength more quickly. 

" How do you feel now, my dear ? " 

" Only a little cold, papa." 

" Dear me — and it is a very hot day ! " remarked the colonel, 
wiping his brows, for he had been walking fast. 

" Is there any news stirring in the town ? " asked Mrs. Cleeve. 

" Nothing particular. Captain Andinnian has sold out. He 
could not do anything else under the circumstances." 

"It is a dreadful blight upon the young man's career," said 
Mrs. Cleeve. 

" There was no help for it, Lucinda. Had he been a general, 


he must have done the same. A man who has a brother work- 
ing in chains cannot remain an officer in the Queen's service. 
Had the brother been hanged, I think the Commander-in-chief 
would have been justified in cashiering Captain Andinnian, if 
he had not taken the initiative," added the colonel, who was 
very jealous of his order. 

Miss Blake turned with a flush of emotion. This news fell 
on her heart like lead. Her first thought, when the colonel 
spoke, had been — If he has left the army, there will be nothing 
to bring him again to Winchester. 

^' Captain Andinnian cannot be held responsible for what his 
brother did," she said. 

" Of course not," admitted the colonel. 

** Neither ought it to be visited upon him." 

^' The worst of these sad things you see, Theresa, is, that they 
are visited upon the relatives : and there's no preventing it. 
Captain Andinnian must go through life henceforth as a marked 
man ; in a degree as a banned one : liable to be pointed at by 
every stranger as a man who has a brother a convict." 

There was a pause. The last word grated on their ears. 
Miss Blake inwardly winced at it. Should she become the wife 
of Karl Andinnian 

"Will Sir Adam be sent to Australia?" asked Mrs. Cleeve 
of her husband, interrupting Theresa's thoughts. 

" No. To Portland Island. It is said he is already there." 

" I wonder what will become of his money ? His estate, 
and all that ? " 

" Report runs that he made it all over to his mother before 
the trial. I don't know how far that may be true. Well, it is 
a thousand pities for Captain Andinnian," summed up the 
colonel. *^ He was a very nice young fellow." 

They might have thought Lucy, sitting there, her face covered 
by her hand, was asleep, so still was she. Presently, colonel 
and Mrs. Cleeve were called away to receive some visitors; 
and Miss Blake began folding her silks and white satin in tissue 
paper, for the hour for some service or other was at hand. 
Halting for a moment at the fire to shake the ends of silk from 
her gown into the hearth, she glanced at Lucy. 

" Suppose you had been married to Karl Andinnian, Lucy!" 


" What an awful fate it would have been for you ! '^ 

*' I should only have clung to him the closer, Theresa," was 
the low answer. And it must be premised that neither Lucy 
nor any one else had the slightest notion of Miss Blake's regard 
for Karl. 

Miss Blake glanced at her watch. She had two minutes yet. 
She turned and stood before Lucy. In her unselfish judgment 
— and she did try to judge unselfishly always — a union with 
Captain Andinnian now, though she herself might stoop to f mt 
up with it in her great love, would be utterly beneath L^ cy 

" You — you do not mean to imply that you would marry 
Captain Andinnian, as things are ? " 

*^ I would. My father and mother permitting me." 

" You unhappy girl ! Where's your pride ? " 

*'I did not say I was going to do it, Theresa. You put an 
imaginary proposition ; one that is altogether impossible, and 
I replied to that. I do not expect ever to see Karl Andinnian 
again in this world." 

Something in the despairing accent touched Miss Blake, in 
spite of her wild jealousy. '^ You seem very poorly to-day, 
Lucy," she gently said. " Are you in pain ? " 

*' No," replied Lucy, with a sigh : " not in pain. But I 
don't seem to get much better, do I, Theresa ? I wish I could, 
for papa and mamma's sake." 



It seemed to Mrs. Andinnian and to her son, Karl, that trouble 
like unto theirs had never yet fallen upon man. Loving Adam 
as they did, for his sake it was more than they knew how to 
bear. The disgrace and blight to themselves were terrible ; to 
Karl especially, who was, so to say, only entering on life. 
There are some calamities that can never be righted in this 
world ; scarcely softened. This was one of them. Calamities 


when we can only bear^ bear always here ; when nothing is left 
us but to look forward to, and live on for, the next world, 
where no pain will be. In Karl's mind this was ever present. 

The bare fact of the selling-out was to Karl Andinnian a 
bitter blow. He was attached to his profession : and he had 
been looking forward to finding, in the active discharge of its 
duties, a relief from the blank left by the loss of Lucy Cleeve. 
Now he must be thrown utterly upon himself; an idle man. 
Everyone was very kind to him : from the Commander-in-chief, 
with whom he had an interview, downwards ; evincing for him 
the truest respect and sympathy : but not one of them said, 
"Won't you reconsider your determination and remain with 
us?'' His Royal Highness civilly expressed regret at the loss 
her Majesty would sustain in so good a servant; but he took 
the withdrawal as a matter that admitted of no question. 
There could be none. Captain Andinnian's only brother, 
escaping the gallows by an accorded favour, was working as 
a convict on Portland Island : clearly the captain, brave and 
unsullied man though he individually was, could only hasten 
to hide his head in private life. 

It was a happy thing for Karl that he had plenty of business 
on his hands just now It saved him in a degree from thought. 
Besides his own matters, there were many things to see to for 
his mother. The house in Northamptonshire was given up, 
its furniture sold, its household, except Hewitt, discharged. 
Karl was on the spot and saw to it all. Whilst there, he had 
rather a struggle with himself. His natural kindliness of feeling 
prompted him to call and see Miss Turner : personally he 
shrank from it, for he could not forget that it was through her 
all the misery had happened. He did violence to his inclina- 
tion, and called. The young lady seemed to be in very 
depressed spirits, and said little. The event seemed to have 
tried her much, and she was pale and thin. During the interval 
that had elapsed since the trial, her uncle, to whom she was 
much attached, had died. She told Karl that her aunt, Mrs. 
Turner, intended to remove at once to her native place, a 
remote district of Cumberland : Rose supposed she should 
have to remove with her. Mr. Turner had left a very fair 
amount of property. His wife was to receive the interest of it 


for her life ; at her death the whole of it would come to Rose. 
As Karl shook hands with her on leaving, and wished her well, 
something he said was taken by her as alluding to the unhappy 
tragedy, though he had intended nothing of the sort. It had a 
strange effect upon her. She rose from her seat, her hands 
trembling; her face became burning red, then changed to a 
ghastly whiteness. " Don't speak of it, Captain Andinnian," 
she exclaimed in a voice of horror ; " don't hint at it, unless 
you would see me go mad. There are times when I think tliat 
madness will be my ending." Again wishing her well, he took 
his departure. It was rather unlikely, he thought, that their 
paths would cross each other again in life. 

Hewitt was sent to Foxwood. It would probably be made 
the future home of Mrs. Andinnian and her younger son ; but 
at present they had not gone there. For some little time, 
while Karl was busy in London, Northamptonshire, or else- 
where, he had lost sight of his mother. She quitted the tem- 
porary home she occupied, and, so to say, disappeared. Whilst 
he was wondering what this meant, and where she could be, 
he received a letter from her dated Weymouth. She told him 
she had taken up her abode there for the present, and she 
charged him not to disclose this to any one, or to let her address 
be known. Just for a moment, Karl was puzzled to imagine 
what her motive could be in going to a place that she knew 
nothing about. All at once the truth flashed upon him — she 
would be as near as possible to the cruel prison that contained 
her ill-fated son. 

It was even so. Adam Andinnian was on Portland Island ; 
and his mother had taken up her residence at Weymouth to be 
near him. Karl, who knew not the place, or the rules observed, 
wondered whether a spectator might stroll about on the (so- 
called) island at will, or even get a chance glimpse of the gangs 
at their labour. 

In the month of October, Captain Andinnian — to call him by 
this title for a short time longer — went to Weymouth. He 
found his mother established in a small, mean, ready-furnished 
house in an obscure part of the town. It was necessary for him 
to see her on matters connected with the Foxwood estate, of 
which he had now the management ; but she had charged him 


to come to her in as private a manner as he well could, and 
not to make himself or his name known at the station or else- 
where, unless under necessity. " She is right," thought Karl ; 
" the name of Andinnian is notorious now.'' That was true ; 
and he did not suppose she had any other motive for the 

" But, my dear mother, why are you hereV^ he asked, within 
five minutes of his entrance, as he looked at the confined walls 
of the mean abode. **You might at least have been more 
comfortably and suitably lodged." 

^'What I choose to do, I do," she answered, in the distant 
tones of former days. ^* It is not for you to question me." 

Mrs. Andinnian was altered. Mental suffering had told upon 
her. The once fresh hues of her complexion had given place 
to a fixed pallor; the large dark eyes had acquired a fierce 
and yet restless look. In manner alone was she unaltered, at 
least to Karl : and as to her pride, it seemed to be more 
dominant than ever. 

*' I was only thinking of your comfort, mother," he replied 
to her fierce rejoinder. " This is so different from what you 
have been accustomed to." 

" Circumstances are different," she said, curtly. 

'' Have you only one servant in the whole house ? For 
everything ? " 

*' She is enough for me : she is a faithful woman. I tell you 
that circumstances are not what they were." 

^^ Some are not — unhappily," he answered. **But others, 
pecuniary ones, have changed the other way. You are rich now." 

^^ And do you think I would touch a stiver of the riches that 
are my dear Adam's ? " she retorted, her eyes blazing. " Ex- 
cepting what may be necessary to keep up Foxwood, and to — 

to No," she resumed, after the abrupt break, ^' I hoard 

them for him." 

Karl wondered whether trouble had a little touched her 
brain. Poor Adam could have no further use for riches in this 
world. Unless, indeed, in years to come, he should obtain 
what was called a ticket-of-leave. But Karl fancied that in a 
case like Adam's — the extreme sentence commuted — it was 
never given. 


Mrs. Andinnian began asking details of the giving-up of her 
former home. In answering, Karl happened to mention in- 
cidentally the death of their neighbour, Mr. Turner, and his 
own interview with Rose. The latter's name excited Mrs. 
Andinnian beyond all precedent: it brought on one of those 
frightful fits of passion that Karl had not seen of late years. 

'' I loathe her," she wildly said. " But for her wicked 
machinations, my darling son had not fallen into this dreadful 
fate that is worse than death. May my worst curses light upon 
the head of Rose Turner ! " 

Karl did what he could to soothe the storm he had un- 
wittingly evoked. He told his mother that she would never, in 
all probability, be grieved with the sight of the girl again, for 
she was removing to the out-of-the-world district of Cumberland. 

The one servant, alluded to by Karl, was a silent-mannered, 
capable woman of some forty years. Her mistress called her 
" Ann," but Karl found she was a Mrs. Hopley, a married 
Avoman. That she appeared to be really attached to her 
mistress, to sympathize with her in her great misfortune, and to 
be solicitous to render her every little service that could soothe 
her, Captain Andinnian saw and felt grateful for. 

" Where is your husband ? '^ he one day inquired. 

" Hopley's out getting his living, sir," was the answer. " AVe 
have had misfortunes, sir : and when they come to people such 
as us, we must do the best we can to meet them. Hopley's 
working on his side, and me on mine." 

*' He is not in Weymouth then ? " 

**No, he is not in Weymouth. We are not Weymouth 
people, sir. I don't know much about the place. I never 
lived at it till I came to Mrs. Andinnian." 

By this, Karl presumed that his mother had brought Mrs. 
Hopley with her when she came herself: but he asked no 
further questions. It somewhat explained what he had rather 
wondered at — that his mother, usually so reticent, and more 
than ever so now, should have disclosed their great calamity to 
this woman. He thought the servant must have been already 
cognizant of it. 

*'What misfortune was it of your own that you allude to?" 
he gently asked. 


" It was connected with our son, sir. I and my husband 
never had but him. He turned out wild. While he was quite a 
lad, so to say, he ruined us, and we had to break up the home." 

** And where is he now?" 

She put her check apron up to her face to hide her emotion. 
" He is dead," was the low answer. " He died a dreadful 
death, sir, and I can't yet bear to talk of it. It's hardly three 
months ago." 

Karl looked at the black ribbon in her cap, at her neat 
black-and-white print gown : and his heart went out to the 
woman's sorrow. He understood better now — she and her 
mistress had a grief in common. Later, he heard somewhat 
more of the particulars. Young Hopley, after bringing his 
parents to beggary, had plunged into crime ; and then, to 
avoid being taken, had destroyed himself. 

But, as the days went on, Karl Andinnian could not help 
remarking that there was an atmosphere of strangeness per- 
vading the house ; he could almost have said of mystery. 
Frequently were mistress and maid closeted together in con- 
ference ; the door locked upon them, the conversation carried 
on in whispers. Twice he saw Ann Hopley go out so be- 
cloaked and be-bonneted that it almost looked as though she 
were dressed for disguise. Karl thought it very strange. 

One evening, when he was reading to his mother by candle- 
light, the front-door was softly knocked at, and some one was 
admitted to the kitchen. In the small house, all sounds were 
plainly heard. A minute or two elapsed, and then Ann came 
in to say a visitor wished to speak to her mistress. Whilst 
Karl was wondering at this — for his mother was entirely 
unknown in the place — Mrs. Andinnian rose without the least 
surprise, looked at her son, and hesitated. 

'*Will you step into another room, Karl? My interview 
must be private." 

So ! she had expected this visit. Captain Andinnian went 
into his bedroom. He saw — for his curiosity was excited, and 
he did not quite close the door— a tall, big, burly man, much 
wrapped up, and who kept his hat on, walk up the passage to 
the sitting-room, lighted thither by Ann. It seemed to the 
captain as though the visitor wished to conceal his face. The 


interview lasted about twenty minutes. Ann then showed the 
man out again, and Karl returned to the parlour. 

" Who was it, mother ? " 

*^A person to see me on private business,^^ replied Mrs. 
Andinnian, in a voice that effectually checked further inquiries. 

The days passed monotonously. Mrs. Andinnian was 
generally buried in her own thoughts, scarcely ever speaking 
to him ; and when she did speak, it was in a cold or snappish 
manner. " If she would only make a true son of me, and give 
me her confidence 1 " Karl often thought. But, to do anything 
of the kind was evidently not the purpose of Mrs. Andinnian. 

He one day went over to Portland Island. The wish to 
make the pilgrimage, and see what the place was like, had 
been in his mind from the first ; but in the midst of the wish, 
a dreadful distaste to it drew him back, and he had let the time 
elapse without going there. October was in its third week, and 
the days were growing wintry. 

It is a dreary spot — and it struck with a strange dreariness 
on Captain Andinnian's spirit. Storms, that seemed to fall 
lightly on other places, rage out their fury there. Half a gale 
was blowing that day, and he seemed to feel its roughness to 
the depth of his heart. The prospect around, with its restless 
sea, romantic enough at some times, was all too wild to-day ; the 
Race of Portland, that turbulent place which cannot be crossed 
by vessel, gave him a fit of the shivers. As to the few houses 
he saw, they were as poor as the one inhabited by his mother. 

Just outside one of the quarries. Captain Andinnian halted, 
his eyes fixed on the foaming sea, his thoughts most bitter. 
Within a few yards of him, so to say, worked his unfortunate 
brother; a convicted felon ; all his hopes in this world blighted; 
all his comforts in life gone out for ever. Karl himself was 
peculiarly susceptible to physical discomfort, as sensitive-natured 
men are apt to be ; and he never thought without a shudder of 
what Adam had to undergo in this respect. 

" Subjected to endless toil ; to cruel deprivation ; to isolation 
from all his kind 1 " groaned Karl aloud to the wild winds. 
" Oh, my brother, if " 

His voice died away in very astonishment. Turning from 
the place and walking away, when he had gone a little distance, 


he saw behind a block of stone at right angles with him, but 
not very near, two persons walking side by side, evidently 
conversing in whispers. In the cloaked woman, with the large 
black bonnet and black crape veil over her face, Karl was sure 
he saw their servant, Ann Hopley. The other must be, he 
thought, one of the warders ; and, unless Karl was greatly mis- 
taken, he recognized in his strong, burly frame the same man 
w^ho had come a night or two before to his mother's house. 
They passed on without seeing him, but he saw the man's face 

A light dawned on his mind. His mother was striving to 
make a friend of this warder, with a view to conveying messages 
— perhaps also, it might be, physical comforts — to Adam : yes, 
that was undoubtedly the solution of the mystery. But why 
need she have hidden it from him, Karl ? 

When he reached home that night — for he stayed out until 
he was tired and weary — Ann Hopley, in her usual home attire, 
was putting the tea-tray on the table. 

" I fancied I saw Ann out to-day," he observed to his mother, 
when they were alone. 

" She went out on an errand for me," replied Mrs. Andinnian. 

" I have been over to the Island," continued Karl. ^' It was 
there I thought I saw her." 

Mrs. Andinnian was pouring some cream into the tea-cups 
when he spoke. She put down the small frail glass jug with 
a force that broke it, and the cream ran over the tea-board. 

^' You have been to the Island ? " she cried in a voice that 
betrayed some dreadful terror. *' To the Island V 

Karl was rising to see what he could do towards repairing the 
mishap. The words arrested him. He had again been so un- 
lucky as to raise one of her storms of passion : but this time he 
could see no reason in her anger : neither did he quite under- 
stand what excited it. 

^^ To-day is the first time I have been to the Island, mother. 
I could not before summon up the heart to go." 

** How dared you go ? " 

" I am thinking of going again,'' he answered, believing her 
question to relate to physical bravery. " And of getting — if it 
be possible to obtain it — permission to see ///;//." 


The pallor, spreading itself over Mrs. Andinnian's face, grew 
more livid. " I forbid it, Karl. I forbid it, do you hear ? You 
would ruin everything. I forbid you to go again to the Island, 
or to attempt to see Adam. Good Heavens ! you might be 
recognized for his brother." 

" And if I were ? " cried Karl, feeling completely at sea. 

Mrs. Andinnian sat with her two hands on the edge of 
the tea-tray, staring at him, in what looked like dire con- 

"Karl, you must go away to-morrow. To think that you 
could be such a fool as to go there / This is worse than all : it 
is most unfortunate. To-morrow you leave." 

" Mother, why will you not place trust in me ? " he asked, 
unable to fathom her. *' Do you think you could have a truer 
confidant? or Adam a warmer friend? I guess the object of 
Ann's visits to the Island. I saw her talking with one of the 
warders to-day — the same man, or I fancied it, that came here 
the other night. That moment solved me the riddle, and " 

'' Hush — sh — sh — sh ! " breathed Mrs. Andinnian, in a 
terrified voice, ringing the bell, and looking round the walls of 
the room as if in dread that they had ears. " Not another 
word, Karl; I will not, dare not, hear it." 

" As you please, mother," he rejoined, feeling bitterly hurt at 
her want of trust. 

" Have you any more cream in the house, Ann ? " said Mrs. 
Andinnian, calmly, when the woman appeared. " xAnd you ha'd 
better change the tray." 

The meal was concluded in silence. Karl took up a news- 
paper he had brought in ; Mrs. Andinnian sat moodily gazing 
into the fire. And so the time went on. 

Suddenly there arose the distant sound of guns, booming 
along on the still night-air. To Captain Andinnian it suggested 
no ulterior thought ; brought no cause for agitation : but his 
mother started up in wild commotion. 

*^ The guns, Karl ! the guns ! " 

"What guns are they?" he exclaimed, in surprise. *^What 
are they firing for ? '' 

She did not answer: she only stood still as a statue, her 
mouth slightly open with the intensity of listening, her finger 


lifted up. In the midst of this Ann Hopley opened the door 
without sound, and looked in with a terror-stricken face. 

" It's not ///;;/, ma'am ; don't you be afeared. It's some other 
convicts that are off; but it can't be him. The plan's not yet 
ripe for action." 

And Karl learnt that these were the guns from Portland 
Island, announcing the escape, or attempted escape, of some of 
its miserable prisoners. 

Well for him if he had learned nothing else. The true and 
full meaning of what had been so mysterious flashed upon him 
now, as a sheet of lightning that lights up and reveals the secrets 
of the darkness. It was not Adam's comforts they were sur- 
reptitiously seeking to ameliorate; they were plotting for his 

His escape ! As the truth took possession of Captain 
Andinnian, his face grew white with a sickening terror; his 
brow damp as one in mortal pain. 

For he knew that nearly all these attempted escapes result in 
utter failure. The unhappy, deluded victims are re-captured, 
or drowned, or shot. Sitting there in his agony, his eyes gazing 
out to the fire, a prevision that death in one shape or other 
would be his brother's fate, if he did make the rash venture, 
seated itself firmly within him, as surely and vividly as though 
he had seen it in a magic crystal. 

'' Mother," he said, in a low tone, as he took her hand, and 
the door closed on Ann Hopley, '' I understand it all now. I 
thought, simple that I was, that I had understood it before : 
and that you were only striving to find a way of conveying 
trifles in the shape of comforts to Adam. This is dreadful." 

"What is the matter with you?" cried Mrs. Andinnian. 
'* You look ready to die." 

*'The matter is, that this has shocked me. I pray Heaven 
that Adam will not be so foolhardy as to attempt to escape ! " 

*^ And w/iy should he not ? " blazed forth Mrs. Andinnian. 

Karl shook his head. ^'In nine cases out of ten, the result 
is nothing but death." 

" And the tenth case results in life, in liberty ! " she rejoined, 
exultantly. ^* My brave son does well to attempt it." 

Karl hid his eyes. The first thought, in the midst of the 


many tumultuously crowding his brain, was the strangely 
different estimation different people set on things. Here was 
his mother glorying in that projected escape as if it were some 
great deed dared by a great general : he saw only its results. 
They could not be good ; they must be evil. Allowing that 
Adam did escape and regain his liberty: what would the 
* liberty" be? A life of miserable concealment; of playing 
at hide-and-seek with the law ; a world-wide apprehension, lying 
on him always, of being retaken. In short, a hunted man, who 
must not dare to approach the haunts of his fellows, and of 
whom every other man must be the enemy. To Karl the 
present life of degrading labour would be preferable to that. 

"Do you wish to keep him there for Hfe — that you may 
enjoy his place at Foxwood and his money ? " resumed Mrs, 
Andinnian, in a tone that she well knew how to make con- 
temptuously bitter. The words stung Karl. His answer was 
full of pain : the pain of despair. 

*^ I wish Hfe had never been for him, mother. Or for me, 
either. If I could restore Adam to what he has forfeited by 
giving my own life, I would do it willingly. I have not much 
left to live for.'' 

The tone struck Mrs. Andinnian. She thought that even the 
reflected disgrace, the stain on his name, scarcely justified it. 
Karl said a few words to her then of the blight that had fallen 
on his own life — the severance from Lucy Cleeve. She told 
him she was sorry ; but it was quite evident that she was too 
much preoccupied with other things to care about it. And the 
sad evening passed on. 

With the morning, Weymouth learnt the fate of the poor 
convict — it was only one — who had attempted to escape, after 
whom the guards were let loose like so many bloodhounds. He 
was retaken. It was a man who had attempted escape once 
before, and unsuccessfully. 

"The plans were badly laid," calmly remarked Mrs. An- 

She did not now insist upon Karl's leaving her. He knew 
all ; and, though he could not approve, she knew he would not 
do anything to frustrate her designs. The subject was not 
again brought up : Mrs. Andinnian avoided it : and more days 

Y/ithin the Maze. 5 


wore on. Karl fancied, but could not be sure, that the other 
attempt at escape caused the action of this to be delayed : 
perhaps entirely abandoned. His mother and Ann Hopley 
seemed to be always in secret conference, and twice again there 
came stealthily to the house at night the same warder, or the 
man whom Karl had taken for one. 



On All Saints' Day, the first of November — and it was as 
bright a day for the festival as the saints, whether in that world 
or this, could wish — Captain Andinnian took leave of his 
mother, and went to London. His chief business there was to 
transact some business with the family lawyers, Plunkett and 
Plunkett. Their chambers were within the precincts of the 
Temple, and for convenience' sake he took up his quarters at 
the Charing Cross Hotel. 

In the course of the afternoon, as he was turning out of 
Essex Street, having come through the little court from Plunkett 
and Plunkett's, he ran against a gentleman passing down the 
Strand. " I beg your pardon," Karl was beginning, and then 
became suddenly silent. It was Colonel Cleeve. 

B*ut, instead of passing on, as Karl might have expected him 
to do, the colonel stopped and shook him cordially by the hand. 
To pass him would have jarred on every kindly instinct of Colonel 
Cleeve's nature. As to the affair with his daughter, he attached 
no importance to it now, beheving it had made no permanent 
impression on Lucy, and he had himself three-parts forgotten it. 

" You have sold out, Captain Andinnian. I — I have been 
so very sorry for the sad causes that induced the step. Believe 
me, you have had all along my very best sympathy." 

Karl hardly knew what he answered. A few words of 
murmured thanks ; nothing more. 

^'You are not well," returned the colonel, regarding the 
slender form that looked thinner than of yore, very thin in its 
black attire. " This has told upon you." 


'' It has ; very much. There are some trials that can never 
be lightened in this life," Karl continued, speaking the thoughts 
that were ever uppermost in his mind. " This is one of them. 
I thank you for your sympathy, Colonel Cleeve." 

^^And that's true, unfortunately,'' cried the colonel warmly, 
in answer. " You don't know how you are regretted at Win- 
chester by your brother-officers." 

With another warm handshake, the colonel passed on. Karl 
walked back to his hotel. In traversing one of its upper 
passages, a young lady came out of a sitting-room to cross to 
an opposite chamber. Captain Andinnian stepped backwards 
to let her pass before him ; she turned her head, and they met 
face to face. 

" Lucy ! " 

'' Karl ! '' 

The salutation broke from each before they well knew where 
they were or what had happened, amidst a rush of bewildering 
excitement, of wild joy. They had, no doubt, as in duty 
bound, been trying to forget each other ; this moment of 
unexpected meeting proved to each how foolish was the fallacy. 
A dim idea made itself heard within either breast that they 
ought, in that duty alluded to, to pass on and linger not : but 
we all know how vain and weak is the human heart. It was 
not possible : and they stood, hand locked in hand. 

Only for an instant. Lucy, looking very weak and ill, with- 
drew her hand, and leaned against the door-post for support. 
Karl stood before her. 

** I have just met Colonel Cleeve," he said : " but I had no 
idea that you were in London. Are you staying here ? " 

" Until to-morrow," she answered, her breath seeming some- 
what laboured. "We came up yesterday. Papa chose this hotel, 
as it is convenient for the Folkestone trains. Mamma is here." 

" Lucy, how very ill you look ! " 

'^ Yes. I had fever and ague in the summer, and do not get 
strong again. . We are going to Paris for change. You do not 
look well either," added Lucy. 

*' I have not had fever : but I have had other things to try 
me," was his reply. 

'^Oh, Karl! I have been so grieved!" she earnestly said. 


" I did not know your brother, but I — I seemed to feel ail the 
dreadful trouble as much as you must have felt it. When we 
are not strong, I think we do feel things more than at other 

" You call it by its right name, Lucy — a dreadful trouble. 
No one but myself can know what it has been to me." 

They were gazing at each other : Lucy with her sweet brown 
eyes so full of tender compassion ; Karl's grey-blue ones with a 
world of sorrowful regret in their depths. As she had done in 
their interview when they were parting, so she did now again — 
put out her hand to him, with a whisper meant to soothe. 

" You will live it down, Karl.'' 

He slightly shook his head : and held her hand between his. 

" It is only since this happened that I have become at all 
reconciled to — to what had to be done at Winchester, Lucy. 
It would have been so much worse, had you been bound to me 
by — by any engagement." 

" Not worse for you, Karl, but better. I should have helped 
you so much to bear it." 

^' My darling!" 

The moment the words had crossed his lips, he remembered 
what honour and his promise to Colonel Cleeve demanded of 
him — that he should absolutely abstain from showing any 
tokens of affection for Lucy. Nay, to observe it strictly, he 
ought not to have stayed talking with her. 

" I beg your pardon, Lucy," he said, dropping her hand. 

She understood quite well : a faint colour mantled her pale 
face. She had been as forgetful as he. 

^' God bless you, Lucy," he whispered. " Farewell." 

" Oh, Karl — a moment," she implored with agitation, hardly 
knowing, in the pain of parting, what she said. ^' Just to tell 
you that I have not forgotten. I never shall forget. My 
regret, for what had to be, lies on me still." 

" God bless you," he repeated, with deep emotion. " God 
bless and restore you, Lucy ! " 

Once more their fingers met in a brief handshake. And 
then they parted ; he going one way, she the other j and the 
world had grown dim again. 

Later in the day Karl heard it incidentally mentioned by 


some people in the coffee-room, that Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve 
with their daughter and two servants were' going to make a 
prolonged stay on the Continent for the benefit of the young 
lady's health, who had been suffering from fever. Little did 
they think that the quiet, distinguished-looking man in mourn- 
ing, who had only come in to ask for some information, and 
was waiting whilst the waiter brought it, had more to do with 
the young lady's failing health than any fever. 

Captain Andinnian took his breakfast next morning in 
private : as he sat down to it, the waiter brought him a news- 
paper. Whilst listlessly unfolding it, he took the opportunity 
to ask a question. 

^^ Have Colonel Cleeve and his family left the hotel ? " 

" Yes, sir. Just gone off for Folkestone. Broiled ham, sir, 
eggs; steak with mushrooms,'' continued the man, removing 
sundry covers. 

*^ Thank you. You need not wait." 

But — ere the man had well closed the door, a startled sound 
burst from Karl's lips. He half sprang from his seat, his eyes 
riveted on the newspaper in one stare of horror. The paragraph 
had a heading in its largest letters — 

"Attempted Escape from Portland Island. Death 
OP the Prisoner, Sir Adam Andinnian." 

Karl let fall the newspaper, and bent his face over the table 
as if to shut out the light. He had not courage to read more 
at once. He remained there praying that it might not be true. 

Alas! it was too true. Two prisoners had attempted to 
escape in concert; Sir Adam Andinnian and a man named 
Cole. They succeeded in reaching the water, and got off in a 
small boat lying in waiting. Some warders pursued them in 
another boat; and after an exciting chase in the dark night, 
came up with them as they reached the AVeymouth side. Sir 
Adam was shot dead by a pistol ; the small boat was upset, 
and one of the warders drowned. Cole was supposed to have 
made his escape. Both men had torn off the numbers from 
their dress when they had escaped. 

Such was the statement given in the newspapers. And, 


however uncertain the minor details might be at this early 
stage, one part appeared to admit of no doubt — Adam 
Andinnian was dead. 

*^I seemed to foresee it," moaned Karl. "From the very 
first, the persuasion has lain upon me that this would be the 

Ere many minutes elapsed, ere he had attempted to touch 
the breakfast before him, a gentleman was shown in. It was 
Mr. Plunkett : a stout man in spectacles, with a large red nose. 
He had the Times in his hand. Captain Andinnian^s paper 
lay open on the breakfast-table ; Captain Andinnian's face, as 
he rose to receive his visitor, betrayed its own story. 

" I see ; you have read the tidings," began Mr. Plunkett, 
sitting down. " It is a dreadful thing." 

" Do — do you think there is any chance that it may not be 
true ? '' he rejoined in an imploring tone. 

"There's not the slightest as to the main fact — that Sir 
Adam is dead," replied the lawyer, decisively. "What could 
he have been thinking of, to hazard it ? " 

Karl sat shading his face. 

" I will tell you what it is, sir — there was a spice of madness 
in your brother's composition ; I said so when he shot Scott. 
There must have been. And who, but a madman, would try 
to get away from Portland Island ? " 

" Nay. A rash act, Mr. Plunkett ; but not one that implies 

A silence ensued. These interviews are usually attended by 

" I have intruded on you this morning to express my best 
sympathy, and to ask whether I can be of any service to you," 
Captain Andinnian," resumed the lawyer. **I beg your 
pardon : Sir Karl, I ought to say. If " 

Karl had raised his head as if in resentment. It caused the 
lawyer's break. 

" Nay, but you are Sir Karl, sir. You succeed to your 

" The reminder grated on me, Mr. Plunkett." 

"The title is yours, and the estates^ are yours. Every 
earthly thing is yours." 


" Yes, yes ; I suppose so." 

" Well, if we can do anything for you. Sir Karl, down there " 
— indicating the direction in which Portland Island might be 
supposed to lie — " or at Foxwood, you have only to send to 
us. I hope you understand that I am not speaking with a 
view to business, but as a friend," concluded Mr. Plunkett. 
*' I'll say no more now, for I see you are not yourself." 

"Indeed I am not," replied Karl. ^^I thank you all the 
same. As soon as I can, I must get down to my mother." 

The lawyer said good morning, and left him to his breakfast. 
But Karl had no appetite : then, or for many a day to come. 
Calling for his bill, he took his departure. 

Never had Karl imagined distress and anguish so great as 
that which he witnessed on his arrival at Weymouth. For 
once all his mother's pride had deserted her. She flung herself 
at the feet of Karl, demanding why he did not persist in his 
objection to the contemplated attempt, and interfere openly, even 
by declaring all to the governor of Portland prison, and so save 
his brother. It was altogether too distressing for Karl to bear. 

The first account was in the main correct. Adam Andin- 
nian and the warder were both dead : the one shot, the other 

It was understood that the body might be given up to them 
for burial. Though whether this was a special favour, accorded 
to the entreaties of Mrs. Andinnian, or a usual one, Karl knew 
not. He was glad of this, so far : but he would have thought 
it better that the place of interment should be Weymouth, and 
the ceremony one of the utmost privacy. Mrs. Andinnian, 
however, ruled it otherwise. She would have her unfortunate 
son taken to Foxwood, and she at once despatched Karl to 
make arrangements. 

On the day but one after Karl reached Foxwood, all that 
remained of poor Sir Adam arrived. Mrs. Andinnian came in 
company. She could not bear to part even with the dead. 

" I wish I could have seen him," remarked Karl, sadly, as 
he stood with his hand on the coffin. 

" I have seen him, Karl," she answered, amidst her blinding 
tears. " They suffered me to look at him. His face was 


They, and they only, saving Hewitt, attended the funeral. 
He was buried in the family vault, in Foxwood churchyard, 
side by side with Sir Joseph and Lady Andinnian. 

What an ending, for a young man who, but a few short 
months before, had been full of health and hope and Hfe ! 

But the world, in its cold charity, said it was better so. 



New Year's Day. Or, as the French more emphatically term 
it, the Jour de TAn. Gay groups went strolling along the 
Boulevards in the sunshine, gazing at the costly etrennes dis- 
played in the tempting shops : women glancing at the perfect 
attire of other women that passed ; men doffing their hats so 
perpetually that it seemed they might as well have kept them 
off altogether; children in fantastic costumes chattering to 
their mothers, and turning their little heads on all sides : all, 
men, women, and children, apparently free from every care, 
except that of pleasure, which constitutes so prominent a 
feature in Parisian life. 

Amidst the crowd, passing onwards with a listless step, as 
if pleasure had no part in his heart and he had no use for 
etrennes, was a solitary individual : a distinguished-looking 
man of pleasing features and altogether refined face, whom few 
of the traversers could have mistaken for aught but an English- 
man. His deep mourning and a certain air of sadness that 
marked his face seemed to be in unison. Several women — 
ingrained coquettes from their birth, as French women are 
often born to be — threw glances of admiration at the handsome 
man, in spite of the fact that their husbands — for that one day 
— were at their side ; and wondered what near relative he had 
lost. But the gentleman passed on his listless way, seeing 
them not, and utterly unconscious that any answering glances 
from his own eyes were coveted. It was Sir Karl Andinnian. 

Close upon the burial of his ill-fated brother Adam, Mrs. 
Andinnian, prostrated with grief and trouble, took to confining 


herself to her own apartment at Foxwood Court ; for it was at 
that residence that she thenceforth took up her abode. Karl 
found himself almost excluded from her presence. Even at 
meals she declined to join him, and caused them to be served 
to herself apart. 

' " Do you wish me away from Foxwood ? '^ Karl one day 
asked her. 

^' I do ; I would be entirely alone/^ was her reply. " I am 
aware that Foxwood is yours now, Karl, and you may think I 
have no right even to express a hint that you might for a time 
leave it ; but I feel that the chance of my regaining strength 
and spirits would be greater if left entirely to myself. Your 
presence here is a strain upon me." 

The answer was to Karl welcome as sunshine in harvest. 
He had been longing to travel; to try and find some relief 
from his thoughts in hitherto untrodden scenes : consideration 
for his mother — -the consciousness that it would be wrong both 
in duty and affection to leave her — had alone prevented his 
proposing it. Within four-and-twenty hours after this he had 
left Foxwood. 

But Karl was not soon to leave England. Various matters 
had to be settled in regard to the estate ; and when he reached 
London, his lawyers, Plunkett and Plunkett, said they should 
want him for a little time. The crime committed by Sir Adam 
so immediately upon the death of Sir Joseph, had caused a 
great deal of necessary business to remain in abeyance. 
Certain indispensable law proceedings to be gone through, had 
to be gone through now. 

So Karl Andinnian perforce took up his temporary abode in 
London; and at the end of a week or two, when he found 
himself at liberty, he crossed the water, Vienna being his first 
halting-place. The sojourn there of a former brother-officer. 
Captain Lamprey, who had been Karl's chiefest friend, and 
stuck to him in his misfortunes, induced it. Captain Lamprey 
was staying in Vienna with, his newly-married wife, and wrote 
to ask Karl to join them. Karl did so. Captain Lamprey's 
leave expired the end of December. He and his wife were 
going home to spend Christmas, and Karl accompanied them 
as far as Paris. Mrs. Andinnian, in answer to a question from 


Karl, whether she would like him to return for Christmas, had 
written back to him a resolute and ungracious No. 

So here he was, in Paris. It was all the same to him ; this 
or that resting-place. His life had been blighted in more ways 
than one. Of Lucy Cleeve he thought still a great deal too 
much for his peace. She was far enough removed from him 
in all senses of the word. In a letter received by Captain 
Lamprey from some friends at Winchester, it was stated that 
the Cleeves were wintering in Egypt. Where Karl's own place 
of sojourn was next to be, he had not decided, but his thoughts 
rather turned towards every chief continental city that was 
famed for its gallery of paintings. He thought he would make 
a pilgrimage to all of them. Karl had the eye of a true artist ; 
to gaze at paintings was now the only pleasure of his life. He 
had not yet done with those of Paris and Versailles. 

Upon his course along the Boulevards, passed he. Now 
and again his eyes turned towards the lovely etrennes with a 
certain longing : once in a way he halted to look and admire : 
a longing to buy etrennes himself, and that he had some one to 
give them to, when bought. It was scarcely possible for any 
one to feel more completely isolated from the happy world 
than did Karl Andinnian. 

" How d'ye do. Sir Karl ? Charming day for the holiday, 
is it not ? '' 

Sir Karl made some answering assent, raised his hat, bowed, 
and passed on. The remark had come from an Englishman 
with whom he had a slight acquaintance, who had come out 
shop-gazing with his flock of daughters. 

He went straight home then to his hotel, purposely chosen 
because it was sufficiently quiet and retired — the Hotel Mon- 
taigne, in the Rue Montaigne. As he crossed the courtyard, 
the landlord — a ponderous gentleman with a ponderous watch- 
chain — came out and gave him some letters. From some cause 
or other the English delivery had been late that morning. 

One of the letters was from Captain Lamprey, the other 
from Plunkett and Plunkett. Neither contained any news of 
interest ; neither thought to wish him happiness for the New 
Year. It was all the same to Karl Andinnian : the New Year 
could have little happiness in store for him. 


He strolled out again, turning his steps towards the Champs 
Elysees. It was only one o'clock yet, and the brightest part of 
the day. At one of the windows of the palace he fancied he 
caught a transient glimpse of the Empress. Shortly afterwards, 
the peculiar clatter of the Prince Imperial's escort was heard 
advancing, surrounding the young prince in his carriage. 

The Champs Elysees were bright to-day. Children attired 
in silks and satins were playing in the sun, their bonnes sitting 
near in their holiday costume. New Year's Day and All 
Saints' Day are the two most dressy epochs of the year in 
France — as every one knows. Invalids sat in the unusual 
warmth; ladies flitted hither and thither like gay butterflies. 
By a mere chance, Karl thought it so then, his eyes fell on two 
ladies seated on a distant bench. Involuntarily his steps 
halted; his heart leaped with a joyous bound. They were 
Mrs. and Miss Cleeve. 

But, ah ! how ill Lucy looked. The bounding heart fell 
again as though some dead weight were pressing upon it. 
Thin, worn, white; with circles round the eyes, and lips that 
seemed to have no life in them. For a moment Karl wondered 
whether he might not approach and question her : but he 
remembered his bargain with Colonel Cleeve. 

They did not see him : they were looking at some children 
in front of them playing at " Malbrouk s'en va-t-en guerre." 
Karl pursued the path he was on. He resolved that if they 
saw him he would go up and speak : if they did not, he must 
continue his way. 

And he had to continue it. Mrs. Cleeve, who did not 
appear to be in strong health either, seemed absorbed by the 
play and the childish voices. Lucy had now bent her forehead 
upon her hand, as though some pain were there. Karl went 
on, out of sight, his brow aching also. 

" Bon jour, monsieur." 

The salutation, which had a touch of surprised pleasure in 
its tone, came from a natty little Frenchwoman, with a thin 
red face and shrewd grey eyes. She might have been given 
five-and-thirty years ; but in the register of her native mairie 
she would have been found close upon forty. Sir Karl stopped. 
She was Lucy's maid : formerly Lucy's nurse. 


" C'est vous, Aglae ! " 

'^ Mais oui, monsieur." 

" I thought I saw Mrs. and Miss Cleeve sitting on a bench 
just now," continued Karl, changing his language. " Are you 
staying in Paris ? '' 

" Oh, very long since," replied Aglae, to whom both 
languages were almost alike. " Our apartment is close by, sir 
■ — a small house in the Avenue d'Antin. The delight to find 
myself in my own land again, where I can go about without 
one of those vilain bonnets and hear no street gamins hoot at 
me for it, is not to be told." 

^^ I understood that Colonel Cleeve and his family had gone 
to Egypt for the winter," observed Karl. 

^' To Egypt, or to some other place of barbarism : so it was 
projected, sir. But my young lady, Miss Lucy, is not strong 
enough to be taken there." 

*^ What is the matter with her ? " asked Karl, with assumed 

''The matter? Oh! The matter is, that she has no 
happiness left in her heart, sir," cried Agla^ explosively, as if 
in deep resentment against things in general. " It's dried up. 
And if they don't mind, she will just go out of life. That's 
my opinion : and, mind, sir, I do not go to say it without 

A slight blush manded to Karl's face. He seemed to be 
watching a paper kite, that was sailing beneath the blue sky. 

" They see it now, both of them ; the colonel and madame ; 
they see that she's just slipping away from them, and they are 
ill also. Ah, but the senseless — what you call it? — distinctions 
— that the English set up ! " 

" But what is the cause ? " asked Karl. Though it seemed 
to him that he could discern quite well without being answered. 

Aglae threw her shrewd eyes into his. 

" I think, sir, you might tell it for yourself, that. She has 
not been well since that fever. She was not well before the 
fever, since — since about the month of May." 

He drew in his lips. Agla^, with native independence, 
continued to stare at him. 

'^ Why don't you call and see her, sir ? " 


" Because — well, I suppose you know, Aglae. I should not 
be welcome to Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve.'' 

" And the poor young lady, who never did harm to living 
soul, is to be let sink down into her grave for the sake 
of English prejudice ! / can see. I've my wits about me, 
and have seen it all along. My service to you, sir. Bon 

The maid went on in a rage, her dainty cap nodding, her 
smart boots going down rather more noisily than was necessary. 
Sir Karl passed on his way, thinking deeply. He walked 
about until the daylight was fading, and then strode back 
rapidly to his hotel, with the air of a man who is about to carry 
out some resolution that will not wait. It was so. A resolution 
that had been floating in his mind before he saw Lucy or 
encountered her maid. 

Colonel Cleeve was seated alone that evening in his dining- 
room in the Avenue d'Antin, when a letter was delivered to 
him. For a few minutes he let it lie unheeded. The thoughts 
he was buried in were very sad ones — they ran on the failing 
strength of his only daughter. It seemed to him and Mrs. 
Cleeve that unless some wonderful change — say a miracle, for 
instance — interposed, Lucy's life was not worth many weeks' 
purchase. They knew now — ^he and his wife — that the parting 
with Karl Andinnian had been too cruel for her. 

Arousing himself from his gloomy visions, the colonel opened 
the note — which had been left by hand. Why, here was a 
strange thing ! He started in surprise. Started when he saw 
the contents of the letter and the signature appended. Had 
the miracle come ? 

It was one of the candid, straightforward letters, so charac- 
teristic of Karl Andinnian. He said that he had chanced to 
see Miss Cleeve that day ; that he had been shocked by her 
appearance; that he had happened to hear from Aglae sub- 
sequently how very alarmingly she was failing. He went on to 
add with deprecation, every word of which told of the most 
sensitive refinement, that he feared the trouble of last May 
might have had something to do with it, and be still telling 
upon her. He then put a statement of his affairs, as to 
possessions and income, before Colonel Cleeve, and asked 


whether he might presume again to address Lucy now that he 
could offer a good settlement and make her Lady Andinnian. 

Three times over Colonel Cleeve read the note, pausing well 
to reflect between each time. Then he sent for his wife. 

" He is of no family — and there's that dreadful slur upon it 
besides," remarked the colonel, talking it over. ^^But it may 
be the saving of Lucy's life." 

*' It is a good letter," said Mrs. Cleeve, reading it through 
her eye-glass. 

" It's as good and proper a letter as any young man could 
write. All his instincts are honourable. Some men might 
have written to Lucy herself. Putting aside his want of family 
and the other disrepute, we could not wish a better son-in-law 
than Karl Andinnian." 

*^Yes," deliberated Mrs. Cleeve, after a pause. *^True. 
The disadvantages are great : but they seem little when 
balanced against the chance of restoring Lucy's life. She will 
be a baronet's wife ; she will be sufficiently rich ; and — I think 
— she will be intensely happy." 

^^ Then I'll send for him," said Colonel Cleeve. 

The interview took place on the following morning. It was 
a peculiar one. Just as open as Karl had been in his letter, 
so was the colonel now. 

^' I think it may be the one chance for saving my child's 
life," he said ; " for there's no denying that she was very much 
attached to you, Andinnian. Sitting alone after dinner last 
evening, I was telling myself that nothing short of a miracle 
could help her. The doctors say they can do nothing, the 
malady is on her mind — though for my part I think the chief 
ill is the weakness left by that fever. Your letter came to 
interrupt my thoughts ; and when I read it I wondered whether 
that might not be a miracle." 

" If you will only give me Lucy, my whole life shall be 
devoted to her best welfare, sir," Karl said in low tones. ^^My 
happiness was wrecked equally with hers : but I am a man, and 
therefore stronger to bear." 

" Nothing would have induced me to give her to you had 
your brother lived," resumed the colonel. ^^If I am too plain 
in what I say I must beg you to excuse it ; but it is well that 


we' should understand each other thoroughly. Yourself I like ; 
I always have liked you ; but the disgrace inflicted upon you 
was so great whilst your brother was living, that to see Lucy 
your wife then would I think have killed both me and Mrs. 
Cleeve. Take it at the best, it would have embittered our lives 
for ever.'' 

" Had my unfortunate brother lived, I should never have 
attempted to ask for her, Colonel Cleeve." 

" Right. I have observed that on most subjects your ideas 
coincide with my own. Rather than that — the disgrace to her 
and to us ; and grievous though the affliction would have been 
to me and to her mother — we would rather have laid our child 
to rest." 

The emotion with which Colonel Cleeve spoke — -the generally 
self-contained man whose calmness almost bordered upon 
apathy — proved how true the words were, and how terribly the 
sense of disgrace would have told upon him. 

" But your unhappy brother has paid the forfeit of his crimes 
by death," he continued, '^ and it is to be hoped and expected 
that in time the remembrance of him and of what he did will 
die out of people's minds. Therefore we have resolved to trust 
to this hope, and give you Lucy. It will be better than to let 
her die." 

Sir Karl Andinnian drew in his slender lips. But that he 
had passed through a course of most bitter humiHation — and 
that, wherever it falls, seems for the time to root out pride — he 
might have shown resentment at the last words. The colonel 
saw he felt the sting ; and he wished it had not been his province 
to inflict it. 

"It was best to explain this, Andinnian. Pardon me for 
its sound of harshness. And now that it is over and done with, 
let me say that never for a moment have I or Mrs. Cleeve 
blamed you. It was not your fault that your brother lost himself; 
neither could you have helped it : and we have both felt almost 
as sorry for you as though you had been a relative of our own. 
I beg that henceforth his name may never be mentioned between 
you and us. The past, so far as regards him, must be as though 
it had never been. You will observe this reticence ? " 

" Undoubtedly.'' 


^^The affair is settled then, Andinnian. Will you see Lucy?" 

*^ If I may/' replied Karl, a bright smile succeeding to the 
sadness on his face. '' Does she know I am here?" 

" She knows nothing. Her mother thought it might be 
better that I should speak to you first. You can tell her all 
yourself. But mind you do it quietly, for she is very weak." 

Lucy happened to be alone in the salon. She sat in a red 
velvet arm-chair as big as a canopy, looking at the pretty 
etrenne her mother have given her the previous day — a bracelet 
of links studded with turquoises and a drooping turquoise heart. 
A smile of gratitude parted her lips, though tears stood in her 
eyes ; for she beHeved she should not live to wear it long. 

" Lucy," said her father, looking in as he opened the door. 
*^ I have brought you a visitor who has called — Sir Karl 

Lucy rose in trembling astonishment ; the morocco case, 
which had been on her lap, falling to the ground. She wore 
a dress of violet silk, and Aglae had folded about her a white 
shawl — for chilliness was present with her still. Karl advanced, 
and the colonel shut them in together. 

He took both her hands in his, slipping the bracelet on to 
her attenuated wrist — and quietly held them. The poor wan 
face and the hectic colour his presence had called up, had all 
his attention just then. 

" I saw you in the Champs Elysees yesterday, Lucy. It 
pained me very greatly to see you so much changed." 

'^ Did you see me ? I was there with mamma. It is the 
fever I had in the summer that hangs about me and does not 
let me yet get strong." 

*' Is it nothing else, Lucy ? " 

The hectic deepened to crimson. The soft brown eyes 
drooped beneath his gaze. 

^' I fancied there might be another cause, Lucy, and I have 
ventured to say so to Colonel Cleeve. He agrees with me." 

" You — you were not afraid to call here ! " she exclaimed, as 
if the fact were a subject of wonder. 

" What I had to say to Colonel Cleeve I wrote by letter. 
After that, he invited me to call." 

Karl sat down on the red sofa opposite the chair, and placed 


Lucy by him, his arm entwining her waist *^ I want you," he 
said, " to tell me exactly what it is that keeps you from getting 
strong, Lucy." 

" But I cannot tell you, for I don't know," she answered, with 
a little sob. " I wish I could get well, Karl — for poor papa 
and mamma's sake." 

" Do you think I could do anything towards the restoration, 
Lucy ? " he continued, drawing her closer to his side. 

" What could you do ? " 

** Watch you, and tend you, and love you. And — and make 
you my wife." 

*^ Don't jest, Karl," she said, whispering and trembling, 
** You know it may not be." 

*^But if Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve say that it may be?" 

His voice was indicative of anything but jesting : it w^as one 
of deep, truthful emotion. Lucy looked questioningly up at 

" Oh, Karl, don't play wdth me ! What do you mean ? " 

He caught the sweet face, and held it to his. His own hands 
were trembling, his face as pale as hers. But she could not 
mistake his earnestness. 

" It means, my darling, that you are to be mine for ever. 
My wife. They are going to give you to me. Your father 
brought me here that I might, myself, break it to you." 

A minute's doubting look ; a slight shiver as if the joy were 
too great ; and then with a sigh she let her head fall on his 
breast — its future resting-place. 

" And what's this that you were looking at, Lucy?" he asked, 
after a while, turning the pretty bracelet round and round her 

"Mamma bought it yesterday for my New Year's dtrenne. 
I was thinking — before you came — that I might not live to 
wear it very long." 

*'I was thinking yesterday, Lucy, as I walked along the 
Boulevards, that I would give a great deal to have some one to 
buy etrennes for. It is not too late, is it ? Meanwhile " 

Breaking off his sentence, he took a rare ring from his finger, 
one of the most brilliant of opals encompassed by diamonds. 
She had never seen him wear it beforCr 

Within the Maze. 6 


*^ Oh, how very beautiful ! " she exclaimed, as it flashed in a 
gleam of reflected sunlight 

'^ I do not give it you, Lucy," he said, putting it upon her 
finger. ^^ I lend it you until I can find another, fitted to replace 
it. That may be in a day or so. This ring was my father's : 
made a present to him by an Eastern Sultan, to whom he 
was able to render an essential service. At my father's death 
it came to my brother : and — later — to me.'' 

Karl's voice dropped as he was concluding Lucy Cleeve 
felt for him ; she knew what he must feel at the allusion. She 
glided her hand into his, unsought. 

" So, until then, this ring shall be the earnest of our betrothal, 
Lucy. You will take care of it and of my love." 

The ring was the same that had been seen on Sir Adam's 
finger at the trial On that same day, after his condemnation, 
he had taken it off*, and caused it to be conveyed to Karl — his 
from henceforth. But Karl had never put it on his own finger 
until after his brother's death. 



As Sir Karl Andinnian was leaving the house, he saw Colonel 
and Mrs. Cleeve in the dining-room. The latter held out her 
hand to Karl. He clasped it warmly. 

" I am glad it is settled/' she said, in low, impressive tones. 
" You will take good care of her, I know, and make her happy." 

"With the best energies of my heart and life," was his 
earnest answer. "Dear Mrs. Cleeve, I can never sufficiently 
thank you." 

The voices penetrated to a dressing-room at the end of the 
short passage, the door of which was ajar. A lady in travelling 
attire peeped out. It was Miss Blake, who had just arrived 
from England somewhat unexpectedly. Karl passed out at the 
front-door. Miss Blake's eyes, wide open with astonishment, 
followed him. 


"Surely that was Captain Andinnian 1" she exclaimed, ad- 
vancing towards the dining-room. 

" Captain Andinnian he used to be, Theresa," replied Colonel 
Cleeve. *^ He is Sir Karl Andinnian now.'^ 

"Yes, yes; but one is apt to forget new titles," was her 
impatient rejoinder. " I heard he was staying in Paris. What 
should bring him in /Ms house ? Is he allowed to call at it ? " 

" For the future he will be. He is to have Lucy. Mrs. 
Cleeve will tell you about it," concluded the colonel. *' I must 
write my letters." 

Mrs. Cleeve was smiling meaningly. Theresa Blake, utterly 
puzzled, looked from one to the other. 

" Have Lucy ! " she cried. ^' Have her for what ? " 

"Why, to, be his wife," said Mrs. Cleeve. "Could you not 
have guessed, Theresa ? " 

" To— be— his— wife ! " echoed Miss Blake. " Karl An- 
dinnian's wife ! No, no ; it cannot be." 

" But it IS, Theresa. It has been settled to-day. Sir Karl 
has now gone out from his first interview with her. Why, 
my dear, I quite believe that if we had not brought it about, 
Lucy would have died. They are all the world to each 

Miss Blake went back to her room with her agony. From 
white to scarlet, from scarlet to white, changed her face, as she 
sat down to take in the full sense of the news, and what it 
inflicted on her. A cry went up aloud to Heaven for pity, as 
she realized the extreme depth of her desolation. 

This second blow was to Miss Blake nearly, if not quite, as 
cruel as the first had been. It stunned her. The hope that 
Karl Andinnian would return to her had been dwelt on and 
cherished as the weeks had gone on, until it became as a cer- 
tainty in her inmost heart. Of course his accession to wealth 
and honours augmented the desirability of a union with him, 
though it could not augment her love. She had encouraged 
the secret passion within her; she had indulged in sweet dreams 
of the future ; she had rashly cherished an assurance that she 
should, sooner or later, become Sir Karl's wife. To find that 
he was indeed to have Lucy was terrible. 

Miss Blake had undergone disappointment on another score. 


The new modes of worship in Mr. Blake's church, together 
with the Reverend Guy Cattacomb, had collapsed. Matters 
had gone on swimmingly until the month of December. Close 
upon Christmas the Rector came home : it should, perhaps, be 
mentioned that his old curate had died. Mr. Blake was hardly 
fit to return to his duties ; but the reports made to him of the 
state of things in his church (they had been withheld during his 
w^ant of strength) brought him back in grief and shame. His 
first act was to dismiss the Reverend Guy Cattacomb : his 
second to sweep away innovations and restore the service to 
what it had been. Miss Blake angrily resented this : but she 
was unable to hinder it. Her occupation in Winchester was 
gone. She had for the present grown tired of the place, and 
considered whither her steps should be next directed. She 
had a standing invitation to visit the Cleeves, and felt inclined 
to do so ; for she loved the gay Parisian capital with all her 
heart. Chance threw her in the way of Captain Lamprey. 
She heard from him that Sir Karl Andinnian was in Paris ; and 
it need not be stated that the information caused the veer- 
ing scale to go down suddenly. Without writing to apprise 
Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve, she started. And, in the first few 
minutes of her arrival at their house, she was gratified by the 
sight of Karl ; and heard at the same time the startling tidings 
that destroyed her hopes for ever. 

It was like a fate. Comme un sort^ as Mademoiselle Agla^ 
might have phrased it. Only a few months before, when Miss 
Blake returned home to Winchester from Paris, her heart 
leaping and bounding with its love for Karl Andinnian, and 
with the prospect of again meeting him, she had been turned 
into stone at finding that his love was Lucy's ; so now, hasten- 
ing to Paris from Winchester with somewhat of the same kind 
of feelings, and believing he had bade adieu to Lucy for ever, 
she found that the aspect of matters had altered, and Lucy was 
to be the wife of his bosom. Miss Blake's state of mind 
under this shock was not an enviable one. And — whereas she 
had hitherto vented her silent anger on Lucy, woman fashion, 
she now turned it on Karl. What right, she asked herself, 
forgetting the injustice of the question, what right had he to go 
seeking Lucy in Paris, when she had been so unequivocally 


denied to him for ever ? It was a greater blow to her than the 
first had been. 

Waiting until the traces of some of the anguish had passed 
from her white face, until she had arranged her hair and 
changed her travelling dress, and regained composure, she 
went into the presence of Colonel and Mrs, Cleeve. They 
were yet in the dining-room, talking of Lucy's future prospects ; 
growing, in fact, with every word more and more reconciled to 

**The alliance will be an everlasting disgrace to you," quietly 
spoke Miss Blake. ^' It will degrade Lucy " 

"I do not see it, Theresa," said the colonel. ''I do not 
think any sensible people will see it in that light. And con- 
sider Lucy's state of health ! Something had to be sacrificed 
to that. This may, and I believe will, restore her ; otherwise 
she would have died. The love they bear for each other is 
marvellous — quite out of the common." 

Theresa bit her pale lips to get a little colour into them. 
"A man whose brother was tried and condemned for wilful 
murder, and who died a convict, striving to escape from his 
lawful fetters ! He is no proper match for Lucy Cleeve." 

" The man is dead, Theresa. His crimes and mistakes have 
died with him. Had he lived, we would have followed Lucy 
to the grave, rather than have allowed one of the Andinnian 
family to enter ours." 

Theresa played with a tremendously big wooden cross of 
black wood, that she wore appended to a long necklace of 
black beads — the whole thing most mcongruously unbecoming, 
and certainly not in the best taste from any point of view. 
That she looked pale, vexed, disturbed, Colonel and Mrs. 
Cleeve saw : and they set it down in their honest and simple 
hearts to her anxiety for Lucy. 

" Against Sir Karl Andinnian nothing can be urged, Theresa : 
and his brother, as I say, is dead," pursued the colonel. " In 
himself he is everything that can be desired : a sweet-tempered, 
honourable gentleman. He is a baronet now, you know : and 
his proposed settlement on Lucy is good." 

''I don't call him rich," doggedly returned Mi35 Blake. 
** Compare him with some baronets," 


*^And compare him, on the other hand, with others ! His 
income averages about seven thousand a-year, I believe. Out 
of that he will accord his mother an income whilst she lives. 
Compare that with my income, Theresa — as we are on the sub-' 
ject of comparisons; I cannot count anything like two thousand." 

" Are you sure that he is worthy of Lucy in other ways ? " 
resumed Miss Blake, her tone unpleasantly significant. " I 
have heard tales of him." 

^' What tales?'' 

'^ Words dropped from the officers at Winchester. To the 
effect that he is wild^ 

" I can hardly believe that he is,*' said the colonel, uneasily, 
after a pause. " I should dislike to give Lucy to any man of 
that kind." 

^'Oh, well, it may not be true," returned Miss Blake, her 
suggestive conscience reminding her that she was saying more 
than she ought : or, rather, giving a colouring to it that she 
was not altogether justified in doing. ^* You know Httle Den- 
net. More than a year ago — it was before I went abroad — he 
was talking at the Rectory one day about the officers generally, 
hinting that they were unsteady. I said — of course it was an 
absurd thing for me to say — that I felt sure Mr. Andinnian was 
steady : and Dennet rejoined, in a laughing kind of way, that 
Andinnian was as wild as the rest. That's the truth," con- 
cluded Miss Blake honestly, in obedience to her conscience. 

Not very much, you will think ; but Colonel Cleeve did not 
like the doubt it implied ; and he resolved to set it at rest, if 
questioning could do it. That same evening, when Karl 
arrived to dinner, by invitation, the colonel caused him to be 
shown into a little apartment, that was as much a boot-closet 
as anything else : but they were cramped for room in the 
Avenue D'Antin. Colonel Cleeve was standing by the fire. 
He and Karl were very much alike in one particular — that of 
being unsophisticated. In his direct, outspoken manner, he 
mentioned the hint he had received, giving as nearly as possible 
the words Theresa had given. 

*^ Is it true, or is it not, Andinnian ? " 

*'It is not true: at least, in the sense that I fear you may 
have taken it," was the reply : and Karl Andinnian's truthful 


eyes went straight out to the coloneFs. "When I was with 
the regiment I did some foolish things, sir, as the others did, 
especially when I first joined : a young fellow planted down in 
the midst of careless men can hardly avoid them, however true 
his own habits and principles may be. But I soon drew in. 
When my father lay on his dying-bed, he gave me some wise 
counsel. Colonel Cleeve." 
*^ Did you follow it?" 

" If I did not always quite follow it, I at any rate chiefly 
tried to. Had I been by inclination one of the wildest of men, 
events would have surely sobered me. My acquaintance with 
Lucy, the love for her that grew up in my heart, would have 
served to keep me steady ; and since then there has been that 
most dreadful blow and its attendant sorrow. But I was not 
wild by inclination : quite the contrary. On my word, Colonel 
Cleeve, I have not gone into the reckless vice and folly that 
some men go into; no, not even in my days of youth and 
carelessness. I can truly say that I have never in my life done 
a wrong thing but I have been bitterly ashamed of it afterwards, 
whatever its nature; and — and — have asked forgiveness of 

His voice died away with the last hesitating sentence. That 
he was asserting the truth as before Heaven, Colonel Cleeve 
saw, and judged him rightly. He took Karl's hands in his : he 
felt that he was one among a thousand. 

'^ God keep you, for a true man and a Christian ! " he 
whispered. " I could not desire one more worthy than you for 
my daughter." 

When they reached the drawing-room, Lucy was there : 
Lucy, who had not joined in their late dinner for some time 
past. She wore pink silk ; there was a transient colour in her 
face, and her sweet brown eyes lighted up at sight of Karl. 
As he bent low to speak to her, Theresa Blake covered her 
brow, as though she had a pain there. 

" Madame est servi." 

Sir Karl advanced to Mrs. Cleeve, as in duty bound. She 
put him from her with a smile. " I am going on by myself, 
Karl. Lucy needs support, and you must give it her. The 
colonel has to bring Miss Blake." 


And as Karl took her, nothing loth, under his arm, and gave 
her the support tenderly. Miss Lucy blushed the rosiest blush 
that had been seen in her face for many a month. Made- 
moiselle Aglae, superintending the arrangement of the round 
table, had taken care that their seats should be side by side. 
Theresa's fascinated eyes, opposite, looked at them more than 
there was any need for, 

" Lucy has won a prize," whispered the colonel to her, as 
she sat on his right hand. " A prize if ever there was one. I 
have been talking to him about that matter, Theresa, and he 
comes out nobly. And — do you see how changed Lucy is, 
only in this one day? how well and happy she looks? Just think ! 
it was only this time last night that his note was brought in." 

Miss Blake did see. Saw a great deal more than was agree- 
able ; the unmistakable signs of mutual love amidst the rest. 
Her own feelings v/ere changing ; and she almost felt that she 
was not far off hating her heart's cherished idol, Karl Andin- 
nian, with a jealous, bitter, and angry hatred. But she must 
wait for that. Love does not change to hate so quickly. 

It was decided that the marriage should take place without 
delay; at least, with as little delay as Lucy's health should 
allow. Perhaps in February. Day by day she grew better ; 
appetite returned, spirits returned, the longing to get well 
returned : all three very essential elements in the case. In a 
week or two Lucy was so much stronger that the time was 
finally fixed for February, and Sir Karl wrote to tell Plunkett 
and Plunkett to prepare the deeds of settlement. He also 
wrote to his mother — which he had somewhat held back from 
doing : for instinct told him the news would terribly pain her ; 
that she would accuse him of being insensible to the recent 
loss of his brother And he found that he had judged correctly ; 
for Mrs. Andinnian did not vouchsafe him any answer. 

It grieved him much : but he did not dare to write again. 
It must be remembered that the relations between Karl and 
his mother were quite exceptional. She had kept him at a 
distance all his life, had repressed his instincts of affection ; in 
short, had held him in complete subjection. If she chose not 
to accord him an answer, -Karl knew that he should only make 
matters worse by writing to ask why she would not do so, 


*^ He has forgotten his ill-fated brother : he casts not a 
thought to my dreadful sorrow ; he is hasting with this indecent 
haste to hear the sound of his own gay wedding bells ! " As 
surely as though he had heard her speak the complaints, did 
Karl picture them to himself. In good truth, he would not 
have preferred to marry so soon ; but it was right that private 
feelings should give way to Lucy. They were in a hurry to 
take her to a warmer place; and it was deemed better that 
Karl should go with her as her husband than as her lover. In 
the latter case, Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve must have gone — and 
he, the colonel, wanted to be in England to attend to some 
matters of business. Sir Karl and his wife were to stay away 
for a year 5 perhaps more ; the doctors thought it might be well 
for Lucy. Karl was only too glad to acquiesce : for the 
arrangement, as he candidly avowed, would leave him at liberty 
to allow his mother a year's undisturbed possession of Foxwood. 

And so the month of January came to an end, Lucy gaining 
ground regularly and quickly. As to Miss Blake, she remained 
where she was, hardening her heart more and more against 
Karl Andinnian. 

On the sixtli of F'^ebruary Sir Karl went to London. The 
marriage was to take place in Paris on the twelfth. He had 
various matters to transact, especially with his lawyers. The 
deeds of settlement on Lucy, previously despatched to Paris 
by Plunkett and Plunkett, had been already signed. When in 
London, Karl wrote a short note to his mother, saying he was 
in town, and should run down to Foxwood to see her. In her 
reply, received by return of post, she begged he would not go 
down to F^oxwood, as it might " only upset her " — if, the words 
ran, she might so far presume as to deny his entrance to his 
own house. 

It was rather a strange letter. Karl thought so as he studied 
it. By one of the sentences in it, it almost seemed as though 
Mrs. Andinnian were not aware of his projected marriage. 
The longer he reflected, the more desirable did it appear to 
him that he should see her. So he wrote again, craving pardon 
for disobeying her, but saying he must come down. 

About six o'clock in the evening he reached Foxwood. It 
was the l^§t day of his stay : on the fpllpwing day he must 


depart for Paris. A maid-servant admitted him, and Hewitt 
came out of the dining-room. The man's face wore a look of 

" I suppose my mother is expecting me, Hewitt." 

^^ I think not, Sir Karl. I took a telegram to the station this 
morning, sir, to stop your coming,'' he added in a confidential 
tone, as he opened the door to announce his master. 

Mrs. Andinnian was dining in solitary state in the solitary 
dining-room. She dropped her knife and fork, and rose with an 
angry glare. Her dress was of the deepest mourning, all crape. 
Excepting the widow's cap, she had not put on mourning so 
deep for her husband as this that she wore for her ill-fated son. 

'^ How did you dare to come, after my prohibitory telegram, 
Karl ? " she exclaimed imperiously. 

" I have had no telegram from you, mother/^ was the reply. 
" None whatever," 

" One was sent to you this morning." 

" I missed it, then. I have been about London all day, and 
did not return to the hotel before coming here." 

He had been standing close to her with his hand extended. 
She looked fixedly at him for a few moments^ and then allowed 
her hand to meet his. 

" It cannot be helped now ; but I am not well enough to 
entertain visitors," she remarked. " Hewitt, Sir Karl will take 
some dinner." 

*' You surely do not look on me as a visitor," he said, smiling, 
and taking the chair at table that Hewitt had placed. But, for 
all the smile, there was pain at his heart. ''My stay will be 
a very short one, mother," he added, " for I must be away long 
before dawn to-morrow morning." 

" The shorter the better," answered Mrs. Andinnian- And 
Sir Karl could not help feeling that it was scarcely the thing to 
say to a man, coming to his own house. 

He observed that only Hewitt was waiting at table : that no 
one else was admitted to bring in things required by the fact of 
his unexpected intrusion. Hewitt had to go backwards and 
forwards. During one of these absences Karl asked his mother 
7i^/iy she should have objected to his coming. 

*' You have been told," she answered. *' I am not in a state 


to bear the least excitement or to see any one. No visitor what- 
ever is welcomed at Foxwood. My troubles are great, Karl." 
[ '' I wish I could lighten them for you, mother." 

^^You only increase them. But not willingly, I am sure, 
Karl. No fault Hes with you.'' 

It was the kindest thing she had said to him. As they went 
on talking, Karl became more and more convinced, from 
chance expressions, that she was in ignorance of his engage- 
ment and approaching marriage. When Hewitt had finally 
left them together after dinner, Karl told her of it. It turned 
out that Mrs. Andinnian had never received the letter from 
Paris : though where the fault lay, Karl could not divine. He 
remembered that he had given it to the waiter of the Hotel 
Montaigne to post — a man he had always found to be very 
exact. Whether he had neglected it, or whether the loss lay 
in the post itself, the fact was the same — it had never reached 
Mrs. Andinnian. 

She started violently when Karl told her. He noticed it 
particularly, because she was in general so cold and calm a 
woman. After staring at Karl for a minute or two, she turned 
her gaze to the fire and sat in silence, listening to him. 

" Married ! " she exclaimed, when he had stopped. " Married ! 
— and your brother scarcely cold in his dishonoured grave ! 
It must not be, Karl." 

Karl explained to her why it must be. Lucy's health 
required a more genial climate, and he had to take her to one 
without delay. When respect for the dead and consideration 
for the living interfered with each other, it was right and just 
that the former should give way, he observed. Mrs. Andinnian 
did not interrupt him ; and he went on to state the arrange- 
ments he had completed as to Lucy's settlement. He then 
intimated, in the most delicate words he could use, that their 
proposed prolonged residence abroad would afford his mother 
at present undisturbed possession of Foxwood ; and he 
mentioned the income (a very liberal one) he had secured to 
her for life. 

She never answered a word. She made no comment what- 
ever, good or bad ; but sat gazing into the fire as before. Karl 
thought she was hopelessly offended with him. 


He said that he had a letter to write. Mrs. Andinnian gave 
a dash at the bell, and ordered Hewitt to place ink and paper 
before Sir Karl. When tea came in she spoke a few words — 
asking whether he would take sugar, and so forth — but, that 
excepted, maintained her silence. Afterwards, she sat at the 
fire, again in her arm-chair ; buried in disturbed thought ; and 
then she rose to pace the room with uncertain steps, as one 
who is racked by anxious perplexity. At first Karl felt both 
annoyed and vexed, for he thought she was making more of 
the matter than she need have done ; but soon he began to 
doubt whether she had not some trouble upon her, apart from 
him and his concerns. A word, that unwittingly escaped her, 
confirmed him in this. 

"Mother," he said, *'you seem to be in great distress of 
your own : for I cannot believe that any proceedings of mine 
would thus disturb you." 

'^ I am, Karl. I am." 

" Will you not let me share it, then ? — and, if possible, soothe 
it? You will find me a true son." 

Mrs. Andinnian came back to her seat, and replied calmly. 
*'If you could help me in any way, Karl, you should hear it. 
But you cannot — you cannot, as far as I can see. Man is 
born to trouble, you know, as the sparks fly upwards." 

" I thought that / had offended you : at least, pained you 
by my coming marriage. It grieved me very much." 

** My trouble is my own," she answered. 

Karl could not imagine what it could be. He tried to think 
of various causes — just as we all do in a similar case — and 
rejected them again. She had always been a strangely inde- 
pendent, secretive woman : and such women, given to act with 
the daring independence of man, but not possessing man's 
freedom, may at times drift into troubled seas. Karl greatly 
feared it must be something of this kind. Debt? Well, he 
did not think it could be debt. He had never known of any 
outlets for expense : and surely, if this were so, his mother 
would apply to him to release her from it. But, still the idea 
kept coming back again : for he felt sure she had not given the 
true reason for wishing to keep him away from Foxwood, and 
he could not think of any other trouble. Sunk in these 


thoughts, he happened to raise his glance and caught his 
mother's sharp eyes inquisitively fixed on him. 

" What are you deliberating upon, Karl ? ^' 

" I was wondering what your care could be ? " 

" Better not wonder. Yoti could not help ilie. Had my 
brave Adam been alive, I might have told him. He wa§ 
daring, Karl ; you are not.'' 

^' Not daring, mother ? I ? I think I am sufficiently so. 
At any rate, I could be as daring as the best in your interests." 

" Perhaps you might be. But it would not serve me, you 
see. And sympathy — the sympathy that my poor lost Adam 
gave me — I have never from you sought or wished for." 

She was plain at any rate. Karl felt the stab, just as he had 
felt many other of her stabs during his life. Mrs. Andinnian 
shook off her secret thoughts with a kind of shiver; and, to 
banish them, began talking with Karl of ordinary things. 

"What has become of Ann Hopley?" he inquired. *'She 
was much attached to you : I thought perhaps you might have 
kept her on." 

"Ann Hopley?— oh, the servant I had at Weymouth. No, 
I did not keep her on, Karl. She had a husband, you know." 

At ten o'clock Mrs. Andinnian wished him good night and 
good-bye, and retired. Karl sat on, thinking and wondering. 
He was sorry she did not place confidence in him, and so give 
him a chance of helping her : but she never had placed it, and 
he supposed she never would. At times — and this was one of 
them — it had almost seemed to Karl as though she could not 
be his mother. 



"^ViLL you take anything, Sir Karl ? " 

The question came from Hewitt, who had looked in to ask 
for orders for the morning, rousing his master from a curious 
train of thought. 

" I don't mind a little hot brandy-and-water, Hewitt, Some- 


thing or other seems to have given me cold. Is it a cold 

" No, Sir Karl ; the night's rather warm than cold." 

*^ Has my mother any particular trouble or worry upon her, 
Hewitt, do you know?" Karl asked, as he mechanically 
watched the mixing of the spirit and water. ^^ She seems to be 
very much put out about something." 

*'I have noticed it myself, sir ; but I don't know the 
cause," was the answer. " For my part, I don't think she has 
been at all herself since Sir Adam's death. Loving him as she 
did — why, of course, sir, it was a heavy blow ; one not to be 
easily got over." 

'^True, Hewitt. How many servants have you here?" 
resumed Karl, asking the question not really from any par- 
ticular wash to know, but simply to turn the subject. 

^^ There's me and two maids, sir." 

" You and two maids ! " echoed Karl, in surprise. 

" Yes, sir, me and two maids. That's all ; except the outdoor 

" But that's not enough for Foxwood. It is only what we 
had in Northamptonshire. How does the work get done? 
Why does my mother not keep more?" 

*^My mistress says she can't afford more. Sir Karl," returned 
Hewitt, who seemed sore upon the point, and spoke shortly. 

^'But she can afford more," returned Karl, impulsively; *^a 
great many more. Her income is a large one now." 

Hewitt rubbed his bald head with an air of perplexity. Karl 
spoke to him of things that he would not have entered into 
with any less estemed and faithful servant. Hewitt had been 
so long in the family that he seemed like an old confidential 
friend. From his boyhood's days Karl had looked up to 
Hewitt with respect. The man stood before his master as if 
intending to wait and see him take the brandy-and-water. 

*' There can be no debts, you know, Hewitt," spoke Sir Karl, 

Hewitt did not show any surprise whatever at the implied 
suggestion. It seemed to be rather the contrary. 

" I have fancied that my mistress had some embarrassment 
on her mind, sir, such as debt might cause," was the rejoinder, 


much to KarFs astonishment. " I have fancied her money 
goes somewhere — though I should never hint at such a thing 
to anybody but you, sir ; nor to you if you had not asked me. 
Perhaps Sir Adam left some debts behind him." 

"No, he did not, Hewitt. Any debts left by Sir Adam 
would have been paid out of the estate before it came to me. 
Plunkett and Plunkett informed me at once that there were no 
debts at all : excepting the costs of the trial." 

" Then it must be some that have cropped up since : that is, 
the claim for them," surmised Hewitt. '^It is what I've 
thought myself. Sir Karl." 

**But why have you thought it?" 

*'Well, sir, one can't help one's thoughts," answered Hewitt, 
falling away from the question — but not intentionally. " One 
evening, sir, when my mistress seemed fit to die with trouble, I 
asked her if anything had happened to vex her : and she 
answered — after looking at me sternly in silence — No, nothing 
fresh ; only some sorrow of a good many years ago. It was 
the evening after that gentleman called, Sir Karl : a gentleman 
who came and stayed with her ever so long.'^ 
"What gentleman?" asked Karl. 

" Some stranger, sir ; I didn't know him. He came up to 
the house and asked for Mrs. Andinnian. I told him (they 
were my general orders) that Mrs. Andinnian was not well 
enough to see visitors. Oh, indeed, he said, and asked to 
come in and write a note. I was standing by when he began 
to write it, and he ordered me to the other end of the room : I 
suppose he feared I might look over. It seemed to me that he 
wrote only one or two words, Sir Karl ; not more : in a minute 
the paper was folded and sealed — for he told me to light the 
taper. ' There,' said he ^ take that to Mrs. Andinnian: I think 
she'll see me.' My mistress was very angry when I took it to 
her, asking why I disobeyed orders 5 but when she opened it, 
her face went deadly white, and she bade me show the gentleman 
up to her sitting-room. He was there about two hours, sir." 

Karl thought this rather strange, ** What sort of man was 
he, Hewitt ? " 

" A well-dressed gentleman, sir ; tall. He had had a hurt 
to his left arm, and wore it in a sling. When he took it out of 


the sling to seal the note, he could hardly use it at all. It wa^ 
that same evening after he had been, sir, that my mistress 
seemed so full of trouble ; a great deal more so than usual/' 

^' Did you hear his name ? '' 

'*No, sir, I didn't hear his name. A luncheon-tray was 
ordered up for him ; and by the little that I heard said when I 
took it in and fetched it away, I gathered that he was a gentle- 
man applying for the agency of your estate." 

**But I do not require an agent," cried Karl, in some wonder. 

*'Well, sir, I'm sure that's what the gentleman was talking 
of. And my mistress afterwards said a word or two to me 
about the place being neglected now Sir Karl was absent, and 
she thought she should appoint an agent to look after it." 

" But the place is not neglected," reiterated Karl. '- How 
long was this ago ? " 

" About three weeks. Sir Karl. I've not heard anything of 
it since, or seen the gentleman. But my mistress seems to 
have some secret care or uneasiness, apart from the death of 
Sir Adam. She seems always to be in an inward worry — 
and you know how different from that she used to be. It has 
struck me. Sir Karl, that perhaps that stranger came to prefer 
some claims left by Sir Adam." 

Karl did not think this likely, and said so. But neither of 
them could be at any certainty. 

"I wish you would write to me from time to time during my 
absence, Hewitt, and let me know how my mother is," resumed 
Karl, dropping the unsatisfactory subject. 

**And that I will with pleasure. Sir Karl, if you will furnish 
me with an address to write to." 

*• And be sure, Hewitt, that you send to me in any trouble 
or sickness. I wish my poor mother's life was a less lonely 
one ! " 

Hewitt shook his head as he left the room. He felt sure 
that his mistress would never more allow her hfe to be anything 
but a lonely one. Its light had gone out for ever with her 
beloved son. 

Sir Karl went up to his chamber. Before he had well closed 
his door, a maid knocked at it, and said Mrs. Andinnian wished 
to see him. Karl had supposed his mother to be in bed. 


Instead of that, he found her standing by the fire in her little 
sitting-room, and not undressed. 

"Shut the door, Karl," she said — and he saw that her face 
was working with some painful emotion. ^^ I have been de- 
bating a question with myself the better part of this evening, 
downstairs and up — whether or no I shall disclose to you the 
trouble that is upon us: and I have resolved to do so. Of two 
evils, it may, perhaps, be the lesser." 

*' I am very glad indeed, my mother.^' 

^ Hush ! " she solemnly said, lifting a warning hand. ^' Speak 
not before you know. Glad ! It has been consideration for 
you, Sir Karl," she added, in that stern and distant tone that 
so pained him, " that has alone kept me silent. You have no 
doubt been thinking me unnaturally cold and reserved; but 
my heart has been aching the while. Aching for you. If 1 
have not loved you with the passionate love I bore for your 
poor brother — and oh, Karl, he was my firstborn ! — I have 
not been so neglectful of you as you may imagine. In striving 
to keep you away from Foxwood, I was only anxious that your 
peace should not be imperilled earlier than it was obliged 
to be." 

" Let me hear it, mother. I can bear it, I dare say." 

**You may l^ear it, Karl. A man can bear most things. 
But, my son, I dread to tell it you. You will regard it as an 
awful calamity, a frightful perplexity, and your spirit may fainl 
under it." 

Karl smiled sadly. " Mother, after the calamities I have 
undergone within the past year, I do not think Fate can have 
any worse in store for me." 

^^ Wait — and judge. Your anger will naturally fall on me, as 
the chief author of it Blame me, my son, to your heart's 
content : it is my just due. I would soften the story to you if 
I knew how : but it admits not of softening. What is done 
cannot be undone." 

Mrs. Andinnian rose, opened the door, looked up and down 
the corridor, closed it again, and bolted it. " I need not fear 
eavesdroppers in the house," she observed, "and the doors 
■are heavy : but this secret is as a matter of life or death. Sit 
down there, Karl," pointing to a chair opposite her own. 

within the Maze. 7 


*' I would rather stand, mother." 

" Sit down," she reiterated : and Karl took his elbow from 
the mantelpiece, and obeyed her. He did not seem very 
much impressed with what he was about to hear : at least, not 
to the extent that her preparation seemed to demand. Each 
leaned forward, looking at the other. Mrs. Andinnian had her 
arms on the elbows of her chair ; Karl's were crossed. 

^^ First of all, Karl, you will take an oath, a solemn vow to 
God, that you will never disclose this secret to any human 
being without my consent." 

" Is this necessary, mother ? " 

" It is necessary for you and for me," she sharply answered, as 
if the question vexed her. " I tell you nothing unless you do it." 

Karl rose, and took the oath. Resuming his seat as before, 
he waited. 

No, she could not say it. They sat, gazing at each other, 
she in agitation, he in expectancy; and for a minute or two 
she literally could not say what she had to say. It came forth 
at last. Only four words. 

Only four words. But Karl Andinnian as he heard them 
sprang up with a cry : almost as the ill-fated man Martin Scott 
had sprung, when shot to death by his brother. 

'' Mother 1 This cannot be true ! " 

Mrs. Andinnian went over to him and pushed him gently 
into his chair. " Hush, Karl ; make no noise," she soothingly 
whispered. " It would not do, you see, for the household to 
be alarmed." 

He looked up at his mother with a sort of frightened gaze. 
She turned away and resumed her seat. Karl sat still, 
tumultuous ideas crowding on him one after another. 

*' You should have disclosed this to me before I engaged to 
marry," he cried at last, with a burst of emotion. 

" But don't you see, Karl, I did not know of your intended 
marriage. It is because you have informed me of it to-night 
that I disclose it now." 

" Would you have kept it from me always ? " 

'' That could not have been. You must have heard it some 
time. Listen, Karl : you shall have the story from beginning 
to end." 


It was one o'clock in the morning, before Karl Andinnian 
quitted his mother's room. His face seemed to have aged 
years. Any amount of perplexity he could have borne for him- 
self, and borne it calmly ; but he did not know how to grapple 
with this. For, what had been disclosed to him ought to do 
away with his proposed marriage. 

He did not attempt to go to bed. The whole of the rest of 
the night he paced his room^ grievously tormented as to what 
course he should take. The wind, howling and raging around 
the house — for it was a most turbulent night — seemed only an 
index of his turbulent mind. He knew that in honour he was 
bound to disclose the truth to Colonel Cleeve and Lucy ; but 
this might not be. Not only was he debarred by his oath ; 
but the facts themselves did not admit of disclosure. In the 
confusion of his mind, he said to his mother, '^ May I not give 
a hint of this to Lucy Cleeve, and let her then take me or leave 
me ? " and Mrs. Andinnian had replied by demanding whether 
he was mad. In truth, it would have been nothing short of 

What to do ? what to do ? In dire distress Karl Andinnian 
strode the carpet as he asked it. He might make some other 
excuse, if indeed he could invent one, and write to break off 
the marriage — for, break it off to their faces he could not. 
But, what would be the effect on Lucy ? Colonel Cleeve had 
not concealed that they gave her to him to save her life. Were 
he to abandon her in this cowardly and heartless manner, now 
at the eleventh hour, when they were literally preparing the 
meats for the breakfast-table, when Lucy's wedding-robe and 
wreath were spread out ready to be worn, it might throw her 
back again to worse than before, and verily and indeed kill her. 
It was a dilemma that has rarely fallen on man. Karl Andin- 
nian was as honest and honourable a man as any in this world, 
and he could see no way out of it : no opening whatever. He 
might not impart to them so much as a hint of the dreadful 
secret, neither could he inflict the stab that might cost Lucy's 
life. On the other hand, to make Lucy his wife, knowing what 
he now knew, would be unutterable dishonour. What was he 
to do ? What was he to do ? There was absolutely no loop- 
hole of escape for him. 


Karl Andinnian knelt down and prayed. Man, careless, 
worldly man, rarely does these things. He did. In his dire 
distress he prayed to be guided to do right. But all the un- 
certainty came back as he rose up again, and he could not see 
his course at all. Very shortly Hewitt knocked at his door : 
saying it was time for Sir Karl to get up, if he would catch the 
passing train. When Sir Karl came forth, Hewitt thought how 
very quickly he had dressed. 

** It is a rough morning, sir," said Hewitt, as he opened the 

*^ Ay, I can hear that. Farewell, Hewitt." 

Delayed a tide by the capricious winds and waves. Sir Karl 
reached Paris only on the evening of the eleventh. He drove 
at once from the station to the Avenue d'Antin, and asked to 
see Lucy in private. Torn by conflicting interests, he had at 
length resolved to sacrifice his own sense of honour to Lucy's 
life. At least, if she should not decide against it. 

She was looking radiant. She told him jestingly that they 
had considered him lost, that all had prophesied he had de- 
camped and deserted her. Karl's smile in answer to this was 
so faint, his few words were so spiritless and subdued, that 
Lucy, a little sobered, asked whether anything was the matter. 
They were standing on the hearthrug : Karl a few steps apart 
from her. 

^' What should you say if I had deserted you, Lucy ? " 

" I should just have said, * Bon voyage, monsieur,' " she 
answered gaily, never believing the question had any further 

*^ Lucy, my dear, this is no time for jesting. I have come 
back with a great care upon me. It is a fact, believe it or not 
as you will, that I had at one time determined to desert you : 
to write and give you up." 

There was no immediate answer, and Karl turned his eyes 
on her The words told home. Her blanched face had a great 
terror dawning on it. 

^* Sit down, Lucy, whilst you listen to me," he said, placing 
her in a chair. " I must disclose somewhat of this to you, but 
it cannot be much." 

Remaining standing himself; he told her what he could. It 


was a most arduous task to speak at all, from the difficulties 
that surrounded it. A great and unexpected misfortune had 
fallen upon him, he said ; one that from its nature he might 
not further allude to. It would take away a good deal of his 
substance ; it ought in short to debar his marriage with her. 
He went on to tell of the conflict he had passed through, as to 
whether he should give her up or not, and of his final resolve 
to disclose so much to her, and to leave the decision with her. 
If she decided against him, he would invent some other plea to 
Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve for breaking off the marriage ; or let 
the act appear to come from her, as she should will. If she 
decided for him, why then 

*'Tell me one thing, Karl,'' she said, as he broke down. 
" Has this matter had its rise in any dishonour or ill-doing of 
yours ? '' 

" No," was the emphatic rejoinder. " I am as innocent in 
it, and until a day or two ago, was as unconscious of it as you 
can be. You need not fear that, Lucy." 

" Then on your part, you need not have doubted me, Karl," 
she said, the glad tears rising to her eyes with the intensity of 
her relief. *' It was cruel of you to think of a separation now. 
I am yours." 

" Lucy, look fully into the future. At least as fully as these 
indefinite words of mine will admit of. I hope — I trust — that 
no further complication may come of it ; that it may never be 
known to the world. But it may, and probably will be other- 
wise. A great calamity may fall upon us , in the world's eyes 
we should both be dishonoured — dishonoured^ Lucy , I through 
others, you through me" 

*' I am yours ; yours for all time," was the reiterated answer. 

*^ Very well, Lucy. So be it. But, my darling, if that blow 
should fall, you may repent of your marriage with me. I know 
your parents would repent it for you." 

" Hush, Karl ! " she whispered, rising from her seat to the 
arms opening to receive her, " / repent ? That can never 
be. My dearest friend, my almost husband, I am yours for 
weal or for woe. Have you forgotten the vows I shall take to 
you to-morrow in the sight of God ? For richer for poorer, fgr 
better for worse." 


^' God bless you, Lucy ! May God bless and protect us 
both.'' And as Karl held her to him, a scalding tear fell on 
her face from an aching heart. 

The second week in March, as nearly as possible a month 
after the marriage. Sir Karl Andinnian received at Florence, 
where he and his wife were staying, a telegram from Hewitt at 
Foxwood. It stated that Mrs. Andinnian was ill with some 
sort of fever; it had taken a dangerous turn, and her life might 
be a question of a few hours. 

As quickly as it was practicable for them to travel. Sir Karl 
and Lady Andinnian reached Paris. Mrs. Cleeve and Miss 
Blake were still there ; the colonel was in London. The 
Cleeves had let their house at Winchester, and could not yet 
return to it. Karl left Lucy with her mother : not daring, as 
he said, to take her on to Foxwood, lest the fever should be 
infectious. The change in Lucy was wonderful : her cheeks 
were plump and rosy, her eyes told their own unmistakable tale 
of happiness. Mrs. Cleeve could do nothing but look at her. 

^^ We did well to give her to him," said she to Theresa. 
But, for answer, Miss Blake only drew in her lips. The sting 
had not left her. 

** Oh, Karl, my darling, don't stay long away from me ! '' 
whispered Lucy, clinging to him in the moment of his departure. 
*^ And be sure take care of yourself, Karl, and do not run any 
risk, if you can help it, of the fever." 

With many a sweet word of reassurance murmured between 
his farewell kisses of passionate tenderness, Karl answered her. 
To part with one another, even for this short and temporary 
space of time, seemed a great trial. 

A change for the better had taken place in Mrs. Andinnian 
when Karl arrived at Foxwood. She was in no immediate 
danger. Mr. Moore, the surgeon at Foxwood, informed him 
that he must not trust to this improvement. The fever had in 
a degree subsided, but her state of prostration was so great 
that he feared she might yet die of the weakness. Karl 
inquired the nature of the illness : Mr. Moore replied that it 
was a species of low fever more than anything else, and 
appeared to have been induced chiefly by the sad state of 


mind Mrs. Andinnian had been brought into, grieving over the 
fate of her elder son. Dr. Cavendish of Basham (the neigh- 
bouring market-town) had attended regularly with Mr. Moore. 
Sir Karl at once telegraphed to London for a physician of 
world-wide reputation. When he arrived, he only confirmed 
the treatment and opinion of the other two; and said that 
nothing could well be more uncertain than the recovery of 
Mrs. Andinnian. 

Karl wrote these various items of information to his wife in 
Paris^ and showed her how impossible it was that he could 
leave his mother during the uncertainty. Lucy replied by 
saying she should think very ill of him if he could ; but she 
begged him to allow her to come to Foxwood and help him in 
the nursing, saying she was not afraid of the fever. She added 
a pretty and affectionate message to Mrs. Andinnian — that she 
would find in her a loving daughter. The same post brought 
Karl a letter from Mrs. Cleeve, who evidently was afraid of the 
fever. " Do you take precautions for yourself, dear Karl, and 
do you fumigate all letters before you send them out ? " 

Such was its chief burthen. 

Karl believed there was no danger from the fever : but, alas, 
he dared not have Lucy. He had reached Foxwood only to 
find more complication than ever in the unhappy secret dis- 
closed to him by his mother. Only a word or two dropped by 
her — and in her weak, and sometimes semi-lucid state, he 
could not be sure she would not drop them — and Lucy might 
know as much as he did. Besides, there was no sufficient 
establishment at Foxwood to receive Lady Andinnian. 

Hour after hour, day after day, he sat by his mother's bed- 
side. When they were alone, she could only whisper of the 
trouble she had disclosed to him. Karl felt that it was wearing 
her out. He told her so, and she did not deny it. Never for 
a moment did she let the subject rest : it filled her mind to the 
exclusion of everything else in the world. 

Karl felt that death would inevitably end it : and he watched 
her grow weaker. The strain upon his own mind was great. 
Brooding over the matter as he did— for, in truth, to think of 
any other theme was not practicable — he saw what a wrong he 
had committed in marrying Lucy. Sir KarFs only interludes 


of change lay in the visits of the medical men. Dr. Cavendish 
came once a day ; Mr. Moore twice or thrice. The latter was 
rather brusque in his manner, but kindly, keen, and sensible. 
He was plain, with a red face, and a nose that turned up ; and 
brown hair tinged with grey. The more Karl saw of him, the 
more he liked him i and he felt sure he was clever in his calUng. 

^' It is a great misfortune that Mrs. Andinnian should have 
taken poor Sir Adam's death so much to heart," Mr. Moore 
one day observed to Karl, when he found his patient exhausted, 
restless, in all ways worse. " Whilst she cultivates this unhappy 
frame of mind, we can do nothing for her." 

" Her love for my brother was a great love, Mr. Moore ; 
quite passing the ordinary love of mothers." 

^' No doubt of that. Still, Sir Karl, it is not right to allow 
regret for his death to kill her." 

Karl turned the conversation. He knew how wrong were 
the surgeon's premises. Her regret for his brother's death 
had been terrible : but it was not that that was killing Mrs. 

The days went on, Mrs. Andinnian growing weaker and 
weaker. Her mind had unfortunately regained all its activity : 
unfortunately because she had not strength of body to counter- 
balance its workings. Karl had a great deal to do for her* 
consultations to hold with her and letters to write : but even 
yet he was not admitted to her full confidence. During that 
night's interview with her, when he had learned so much, he 
had inquired who the gentleman was that had called and taken 
luncheon. Mrs. Andinnian had declined to answer him, further 
than it was a Mr. Smith, who had applied for the agency of Sir 
Karl's estate. Hewitt informed him that Mr. Smith had called 
again the very day after Sir Karl's departure. He had held a 
long interview with Mrs. Andinnian, and she had never been 
well from that hour. 

It was very strange : strange altogether. Karl now found 
out that Mr. Smith had been appointed the agent, and had a 
small house, side by side with Foxwood Court, assigned to him 
as his residence. The information almost struck Karl dumb. 
He felt sure there was more behind ; some inexplicable cause 
for this : but no satisfactory explanation could he obtain from 


his mother. " She was ill, he was going to live abroad, there- 
fore it was necessary some responsible person should be on the 
spot to look after things," was all she said. And Mr. Smith 
arrived at Foxwcod and took up his abode : and Sir Karl did 
not dare to forbid it. 

To Karl's intense surprise, the next letter he had from his 
wife was dated London. They had left Paris and come over. 
With his whole heart Karl hoped they would not be coming to 
Foxwood ; and in his reply he talked a good deal about the 
'' fever.'' 

As to himself, he was wearing to a shadow. One might 
surely have thought he had fever, and a wasting one. In 
writing to Mrs. Cleeve he admitted he was not well ; and she 
wrote him back four pages full of instructions for fumigation, 
and beseeching him not to come to them. 

The event that had been prognosticated by the doctors and 
feared by Karl took place — Mrs. Andinnian died. In the 
midst of praying for a few days' longer life, she died. Only 
a few days, had run her incessant prayer ; a few days ! Karl's 
anguish, what with the death, and what with other things, 
seemed more than he could bear. Mrs. Andinnian's grave 
was made close to that of her son Adam : and the funeral was 
a very quiet one. 

Karl remained at Foxwood, ostensibly fumigating the house 
and himself, preparatory to joining his wife in town. He 
looked as much like a skeleton as a man. Mr. Moore noticed 
it, and asked what was coming to him. 

One day Mr. Smith, the agent, called, and was shown in to 
Sir Karl. The interview lasted about twenty minutes, and 
then the bell rang. 

*^ Is the gentleman going to remain here as your agent, sir," 
inquired Hewitt, with the familiarity of an old servant, when 
he had closed the door on the guest. 

" Why, yes, Hewitt, whilst I am away. My mother appointed 
him. She thought it better some one should be here to act 
for me — and I suppose it is right that it should be so." 

Freely and lightly spoke Karl. But in truth Mr. Smith 
fairly puzzled him. He knew no more who he was or whence 
he came than he had known before j though he did now knov/ 


what his business was at Foxwood. Mr. Smith's conversation 
during the interview had turned on the Foxwood estate : but 
he must have been aware that Sir Karl saw all the time that 
his agency was only a blind to serve as a pretext for his 
residence at Foxwood. The two were playing a shallow part 
of pretence with one another. Mrs. Andinnian had settled 
the amount of salary he was to receive, and Sir Karl meant to 
continue to pay it. Why ? — the reader may ask. Because Sir 
Karl dared not refuse ; for the man knew too much of Mrs. 
Andinnian's dangerous secret : and it lay in his power to render 
it more dangerous still. 

At length Sir Karl went up to London to rejoin his wife. 
Lucy gave a startled cry when she saw him, he was looking so 
ill; and Mrs. Cleeve accused him of having had the fever. 
Karl turned it off lightly. It was nothing, he said, but the 
confinement of his mother's sick-room. 

But Miss Blake, who was growing very keen in her pro- 
pensity for making the world better than it is, could not under- 
stand two things. Why Karl need have lingered so long at 
Foxwood, or why he could not have had his wife there. 



A MORE charming place than Foxwood Court presented in 
summer when the flowers were in bloom, could not have been 
found in the county of Kent. The mansion was not very large, 
but it was exceedingly gay and pretty. A white buildmg with 
a goodly number of windows, those on the lower floor for the 
most part opening to the ground, so that the terrace could be 
gained from the rooms at will. The terrace — a gravel walk 
with brilliant flower-beds on either side — ran along the front 
and the two sides of the house. A marble step or two in four 
places descended to a lower walk, or terrace, and from thence 
there spread out a wide expanse of lawn, bounded by groves 
of beautiful trees. The chief entrance to the house was in its 
centre : a pillared portico, surmounting a flight of steps that 


led to the broad walk dividing the lawn. At the end of this 
walk between the trees were the large iron gates and the lodge ; 
and there were also two or three small private gates in the iron 
palisades that enclosed the grounds beyond the trees. If there 
was a fault to be found with the place altogether, it perhaps 
was that it had too many trees about it. 

The iron gates opened upon a broad highway : but one that 
from circumstances, now to be explained, was not much used, 
except by visitors to Foxwood Court. To the left of the gates 
a winding road led round to the village of Foxwood, which lay 
distant about a quarter-of-a-mile. To the right the road went 
straight to the little railway-station : but as there was also a 
direct highway from the village to the station, cutting off all the 
round by Foxwood Court, it will readily be understood why 
that part of the road was rarely used. In the village of Fox- 
wood there were a few good and a few poor houses; some 
shops ; a church and parsonage, the incumbent an elderly man 
named Sumnor ; Mr. Moore, the surgeon ; and a solicitor, Mr. 
St. Henry, who was universally called in the place Lawyer 
St. Henry. Some good mansions were scattered about the 
vicinity ; and it was altogether a favoured and attractive neigh- 

In a small but very pretty room of Foxwood Court, at the 
side of the house that looked towards the railway-station, and 
faced the north, sat Mrs. Cleeve and Miss Blake at breakfast. 
It was a warm and lovely June morning. The table, set off 
with beautiful china from the Worcester manufactories, with 
silver plate, and with choice flowers, was drawn close to the 
window, whose doors were wide open. By Mrs. Cleeve's hand 
lay a letter just received from her daughter. Lady Andinnian, 
saying that she and Karl were really commencing their journey 

After Karl Andinnian quitted Foxwood to rejoin his wife in 
London — as was related previously — Lucy had so far regained 
her health and strength that there was really no need for her 
to go, as had been arranged, to another climate. She her- 
self wished not to do so, but to take up her abode at once 
at Foxwood Court, and Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve, seeing her 
so well, said they would prefer that she should remain in Eng- 


land. Karl, however, ruled it otherwise ; and to the Continent 
he went with his wife. 

Nothing more would have been thought of this, but for 
Miss Blake. She was very keen-sighted, and she was fond 
of interference. Somewhat of love still, anger, and jealousy 
rankled in her heart against Karl Andinnian. Anything she 
could say against him she did say : and she contrived to im- 
press Mrs. Cleeve with a notion that he had, in a manner, run 
away with Lucy and was taking her abroad for some purposes 
of his own. She boldly averred that Sir Karl had been keeping 
his wife away from Foxwood by statements of the fever, and 
similar excuses, false and plausible : and that he probably 
meant to keep her away from them in some remote place for 

This served to startle Mrs. Cleeve — though she only half 
believed it. She wrote to Karl, saying that both herself and 
the colonel wished to see Lucy home again, and begged of him 
to return and take up his abode at Foxwood. Karl replied 
that Foxwood was not ready for them ; there was no establish- 
ment there. Mrs. Cleeve wrote again — urging that she and 
Theresa should go down and engage a few servants, just enough 
to receive himself and Lucy : afterwards they could complete 
their own arrangements. A few days' delay and Karl's second 
answer came. He thanked Mrs Cleeve for the trouble she 
offered to take, and accepted it : specifying a wish that the 
servants should be natives of the locality — and those who 
always lived in it. 

" Karl wishes to employ his poor neighbours," observed 
Mrs. Cleeve. *^ He is right there, Theresa. You must see 
how good and thoughtful he is." 

Theresa could find no reason for confuting this opinion. But 
she was more and more persuaded that Sir Karl would have 
kept Lucy away from Foxwood if he could. And we must 
admit that it looked like it. 

Mrs. Cleeve lost no time in going down with Miss Blake to 
Foxwood Court. Hewitt, who had been left in charge, with 
an elderly woman, received them. They thought they had 
never seen a more respectable or thoroughly efficient retainer 
than Hewitt. The gardeners were the only other servants 


Employed. They lived out of doors : the chief one. Maclean, 
inhabiting the lodge with his wife. 

Whilst Miss Blake was looking out for some young women 
servants, two or three of whom were speedily found and 
engaged, she made it her business to look also after the village 
and its inhabitants. That Miss Blake had a peculiar faculty 
for searching out information, was indisputable : never a better 
one for the task than she : and when an individual is gifted 
with this quality in a remarkable degree, it has to be more or 
less exercised. Miss Blake might have been a successful de- 
tective : attached to a private inquiry office she would have 
made its fortune. 

And what she learnt gave her a profound contempt for Fox- 
wood. We are speaking of the village now : not the Court. 
In the first place, there was no church : or, at least, what Miss 
Blake chose to consider as none. The Vicar, Mr. Sumnor, set 
his face against views of an extreme kind, and that was enough 
for Miss Blake to wage war with. Old Sumnor, to sum him 
up in Miss Blake's words, might be conscientious enough, but 
he was as slow as a tortoise. She attended his church the first 
Sunday, and found it unbearably tame. There were no candles 
or flowers or banners or processions : and there was no regular 
daily service. Miss Blake thought one might as well be with- 
out breakfast and dinner. Foxwood was a benighted place and 
nothing less. 

Mr. Sumnor's family consisted of an invalid daughter left 
him by his first wife ; a second wife and two more daughters. 
Mrs. Sumnor kept him in subjection, and her two daughters 
were showy and fast young ladies. The surgeon, Mr. Moore, 
a widower, had four blooming girls and a sister. Aunt Diana, 
a sort of strong-minded female, who took care of them. The 
young ladies were pretty, but commonplace. As to the lawyer, 
St. Henry, he had no children of his own, but had taken to a 
great many of his dead brother's. There were many other young 
ladies in the vicinity; but it was an absolute fact that there 
were no gentlemen — husbands and fathers of famiHes excepted; 
for the few sons that existed had gone out to make their way 
in the world. Miss Blake considered it not at all a desirable 
state of things, and accorded it her cool contempt. But the 


place showed itself friendly, and came flocking in its simple 
manners and goodwill to see the Honourable Mrs. Cleeve, 
Lady Andinnian's mother, and to ask what it could do for her. 
So that Miss Blake, whether she liked it or not, soon found 
herself on sociable terms with Foxwood. 

One morning an idea dawned upon her that seemed as a 
ray from heaven. Conversing with the Miss St. Henrys, those 
ladies — gushing damsels with enough brown hair on their heads 
to make a decent-sized hayrick, and in texture it was almost 
as coarse as hay — informed her confidentially that they also 
considered the place dead, in the matter of religion. Often 
visiting an aunt in London — whose enviable roof-top was cast 
within the shadow of a high ritualistic establishment, boasting 
of great hourly doings and five charming curates — it might 
readily be imagined the blight that fell upon them when doomed 
to return to Foxwood Church and plain old Sumnor : and they 
breathed a devout wish that a church after their own hearts 
might be established at Foxwood. This was the ray of light 
that flashed upon Miss Blake. She started at its brightness. 
A new church at Foxw^ood ! If the thmg were possible to 
be accomplished, she would accomplish it. The Reverend 
Guy Cattacomb, what with prejudiced bishops and old-w^orld 
clergymen, did not appear to be appreciated according to his 
merits, and had not yet found any active field for his views and 
services. IMiss Blake was in occasional correspondence with 
him, and knew this. From being a sort of dead-alive creature 
under the benighting torpidity of Foxwood, Miss Blake leaped 
at once into an energetic woman. An object in life was given 
her : and she wrote a long letter to INIr. Cattacomb telling him 
w^hat it was. This morning his answer had been delivered to 

She chirped to the birds as she sat at breakfast : she threw 
them crumbs out at the wundow. Mrs. Cleeve was leaving 
Foxwood that day, but hoped to be down again soon after Karl 
and her daughter reached it. 

''You are sure, Theresa, you do not mind being left alone 
here ? " cried Mrs. Cleeve, eating her poached ^gg. 

But Theresa, buried in her own active schemes, and in the 
letter she had just had from Mr. Cattacomb — though she did 


not mention the name of the writer— neither heard nor 
answered. Mrs. Cleeve put the question again. 

"Mind being left here? Oh dear, no; I shall like it. I 
hated the place the first few days, but I am quite reconciled to 
it now.'' 

" And you know exactly what there is to do for the arrival 
of Karl and Lucy, Theresa ? " 

" Why of course I do, Mrs. Cleeve. There's Hewitt, too : 
he is a host in himself." 

Breakfast over. Miss Blake, as usual, went out. Having no 
daily service to take up her time, she hardly knew how to 
employ it. Mr. Cattacomb's letter had told her that he should 
be most happy to come to officiate at Foxwood if a church 
could be provided for him : the difficulty presenting itself to 
Miss Blake's mind was — there was no church to provide. As 
Miss Blake had observed to Jane St. Henry only yesterday, she 
knew they might just as well ask the Dean of Westminster for 
his abbey, as old Sumnor for his church, or the minister for his 
Dissenting chapel opposite the horse-pond. 

Revolving these slight drawbacks in her brain. Miss Blake 
turned to the right on leaving the gates. Generally speaking 
she had gone the other way, towards the village. This road to 
the right was more solitary. On one side of it were the iron 
palisades and the grove of trees that shut in Foxwood ; on the 
other it was bounded by a tall hedge with more trees behind 
it. A little farther on, this tall hedge had a gate in the middle, 
high and strong, its iron bars so closely constructed that it 
would not have been well possible for ill-intentioned tramps to 
mount it. The gate stood back a little, the road winding ia 
just there, and was much shut in by trees outside as well as in. 
Opposite the gate, across the road, stood a pretty red-brick 
cottage villa, with green Venetian shutters, creeping clematis 
around its parlour windows, and the rustic porch between 
them. It was called Clematis Cottage, and may be said to 
have joined the confines of Foxwood Court, there being only a 
narrow lane between, which led to the Court's stables and back 
premises. Miss Blake had before noticed the cottage and 
noticed the gate : she had wondered in her ever-active curiosity 
who occupied the one ; she had wondered whether any dwell- 

ii2 Within the maze. 

ing was enclosed within the other. This morning as she 
passed, a boy stood watching the gate, his hands in his pockets 
and whisthng to a small dog, which had contrived to get its 
one paw into the gate and seemed to be in a difficulty as to 
getting it back again. Miss Blake, after taking a good look 
at Clematis Cottage, crossed the road ; and the boy, in rustic 
politeness, turned his head and touched his shabby cap. 

"Where does this gate lead to?" she asked. "To any 

" Yes, 'um," replied the boy, whose name, as he informed 
Miss Blake in reply to her question, was Tom Pepp. "It's 
The Maze." 

" The Maze," she repeated, thinking the name had a strange 
sound. "Do you mean that it is a house, boy?— a dwelling- 

" It be that, 'um, sure enough. Old Mr. Throcton used to 
live in't. Folks said he was crazy." 

" Why is it called The Maze ? " 

" It is a maze," said the boy, patting his dog, which had at 
length regained its liberty. "See that there path, 'um" — 
pointing to the one close within the gate — " and see them 
there trees ayont it ? " 

Miss Blake looked through the interstices of the gate at the 
trees beyond the path. They extended on all sides farther 
than she could see. Thick, clustering trees, and shrubs full of 
leafy verdure. 

" That's the maze," said the boy, " and the place is called 
after it. Once get among them there trees, 'um, and you'd 
never get out again without the clue. The house is in the 
middle on't ; a space cleared out, with a goodish big garden 
and grass-plat. I've been in there three or four times when 
old Mr. Throcton lived there." 

" Did you get in through the maze ?" asked Miss Blake. 

" Yes, 'um ; there ain't no other way. 'Twere always aloffg 
of mother; she knowed the housekeeper. The man-servant 
he'd take us through the trees all roundabout and bring us out 

"Where does this path lead to?" was the next question,, 
speaking of the one between the labyrinth and the gate. 


'^He goes round and round and round again,'* was the 
lucid answer. " I've heard say that a door in it leads right to 
the house, 'um, but nobody can find the door save them that 
know it." 

**What an extraordinary place!" exclaimed Miss Blake, 
much impressed with the narration. " One would think smug- 
glers lived there — or people of that sort.'' 

The boy's eyes — and intelligent eyes they were — went up to 
Miss Blake's. He did not particularly understand what a smug- 
gler might be, but felt sure it could not apply to Mr. Throcton, 

" Mr. . Throcton was a rich gentleman that had always lived 
here," he said. '^ There warn't nothing wrong with him — only 
a bit crazy. For years afore he died, 'um, he'd never see 
nobody; and the house, mother said, were kept just like a 

Miss Blake, very curious, looked at the lock and tried to 
shake the gate. She might as well have tried to shake the air. 

*' Who lives in it now, Tom Pepp ? " 

" A young lady, 'um." 

** A young lady ? " echoed Miss Blake. *^ Who else ? " 

" Not nobody else,'' said the boy. 

"Why, you don't mean to say a young lady lives alone 

" She do, 'um. She and a old servant or two." 

" Is she married or single ? " 

Tom Pepp could not answer the last question. Supposed, 
now he came to think of it, she must be single, as no husband 
was there. He did not know her name. 

" What is she like ? " asked Miss Blake, 

" I've never see'd her," said Tom Pepp. " I've never see'd 
her come out, and never see'd nobody go in but the butcher's 
boy. He don't go in, neither : he rings at the gate and waits 
there till they come to him. A woman in a poke bonnet 
comes out and does the other errands." 

"Well, it must be a very lively place for a young lady!" 
mentally observed Miss Blake, with sarcasm. " She must want 
to hide herself from the world." 

" Mother see'd her at church once with her veil up. She'd 
never see'd nothing like her so pretty at Foxwood." 

Within the Maze. 8- 


Turning to pursue her walk, Tom Pepp, who worked for 
Farmer Truefit, and who was in fact playing truant for half-an- 
hour, and thought it might be poHcy not to play it any longer, 
turned also, the farm lying in that direction. At that moment. 
Miss Blake, happening to cast her eyes across the road, saw 
the head and shoulders of a gentleman stretched out of one of 
the sash windows of Clematis .Cottage, evidently regarding her 

^' Who is that gentleman, Tom Pepp ? '^ 

^' Him ! Well, now, what did I hear his name was again? " 
returned the lad, considering. ''Smith. That's it. It's Mr. 
Smith, \im. He be a stranger to the place, and come here 
just afore Mrs. Andinnian died. It's said he was some friend 
of her'n." 

'' Rather a curious person, that Mrs. Andinnian, was she 
not ? " remarked Miss Blake, invited to gossip by the intelligence 
of the boy. 

" I never see'd her," was the reiteration. " I've never yet 
see'd the new master of Foxwood, Sir Karl Andinnian. It's 
said Sir Karl is coming home himself soon," added the boy ; 
" him and his lady. Hope he'll be as good for the place as 
Sir Joseph was." 

They passed on; the opposite gentleman's eyes following 
Miss Blake : of which she was quite conscious. Soon they 
came to the road on the left hand that led direct to the village. 
Miss Blake glanced down it, but continued her walk straight 
onwards, as if she had a mind to go on to the railway-station. 
Casting her eyes about, she was attracted by a pile of ruins 
on the other side of the road, with what looked like a sort of 
modern room in their midst. 

" Why, what's that ? " she cried to Tom Pepp, standing still 
to gaze. 

" Oh, them be the ruins, 'um," answered Tom Pepp. '' It 
had used to be the chapel belonging to the grey friars at the 

"What friars? — what monastery?" eagerly returned Miss 
Blake, much interested. 

The friars were dead years ago, and the monastery had 
crumbled to pieces, and Mr. Truefit's farmhouse was built upon 


where it used to stand, was the substance of the boy's answer ; 
deUvered in terrible fright, for he caught sight of his master, 
Mr. Truefit, at a distance. 

The farmhouse lay back beyond the first field. Miss Blake 
glanced at it; but all her interest was concentrated in these 
ruins close at hand. 

" Surely they have not desecrated sacred ruins by putting up 
a barn amidst them ! " she exclaimed, as she crossed the road 
to explore. There were half-crumbled walls around, part of an 
ivied stone block that she thought must have been the base- 
ment of a spire, and other fragments. 

" It's not a barn," said Tom Pepp ; " never was one. They 
mended some o' the old walls a few years ago, and made it 
into a schoolroom, and the children went to school in it — me 
for one. Not for long, though. Lady Andinnian and Sir 
Joseph — it was more her than him — fell out with Parson 
Sumnor and the trusts ; and my lady said the children should 
never come to at again. After that, the trusts built 'em a 
schoolroom in the village ; and 'twas said Sir Joseph sent 'em 
five-hundred pound in a letter and never writ a word to tell 
where it come from. He was a good man, he was, when my 
lady 'ud let him be." 

Miss Blake did not hear half of all this ; she w^as lost in an 
idea that had taken possession of her, as she gazed about inside 
the room. It was narrow, though rather long, with bare white- 
washed walls and rafters above, the windows on either side 
being very high up. 

" If this place was the chapel in the old times, it must have 
been consecrated ! " cried she breathlessly. 

^' Very like, 'um," was the lad's answer, in blissful ignorance 
of her meaning. " Them grey friars used to eat their meals in 
it, I've heard tell, and hold jolHfications." 

Preoccupied, the sinful insinuation escaped Miss Blake. 
The conviction that this consecrated place would be the very 
thing needed for Mr. Cattacomb's church was working in her 
brain. Tom Pepp was ensconced in a dark corner, his dog in 
his arms, devoutly hoping his master would not come that way 
until he had made his escape. The ruins belonged to Farmer 
Truefit, the boy said. The fact waS; that they stood on the 


land the farmer rented j which land was part of the Andinnian 

^' Has nothing been done with the room since it was used 
for the school ? " asked Miss Blake. 

"Nothing/^ was the boy's reply. It was kept locked up 
until Lady Andinnian's death. Since then, nobody, so far as 
he knew, had taken notice of it. 

" What a beautiful little chapel it will make ! " thought Miss 
Blake. " And absolutely there's a little place that will do for 
a vestry ! I'll lose no time about it." 

She went straight off to an interview with Mr. Truefit ; 
which was held in the middle of a turnip-field. The farmer, 
a civil man, stout and sturdy, upon hearing that she was a 
relative of his new landlord's wife, the young Lady Andinnian, 
and was staying at Foxwood Court, took off his hat and gave 
her leave to do what she liked to the room and to turn it into 
a place of worship if she pleased ; his idea being that it was to 
be a kind of Methodist chapel, or a mission-room. 

This subhme idea expanding within her mind, Miss Blake 
walked hurriedly back to Foxwood — for Mrs. Cleeve was to 
depart at mid-day. In passing the Maze, the interest as to 
what she had heard induced her to go up to the gate again, 
and peer in. Turning away after a good long look, she nearly 
ran against a rather tall gentleman, who was slowly sauntering 
amidst the trees outside the gate. A gentleman in green 
spectacles, with a somewhat handsome face and black whiskers 
— the same face and whiskers. Miss Blake thought, that had 
watched her from the opposite window. He wore grey clothes, 
had one black glove on, and his arm in a sling. 

Mr. Smith took off his hat and apologized. Miss Blake 
apologized. Between them they fell jnto conversation. She 
found him a very pleasant, talkative man. 

" Curious place, the Maze ? " he echoed in answer to a 
remark of Miss Blake's. *^Well, yes, I suppose it may be 
called so, as mazes are not very often met with." 

^' I have been told a young lady lives in it alone." 

'' I believe she does. In fact, I know it, for I have seen 
her, and spoken with her." 

^ Oh, have you ! " cried Miss Blake, more curious than ever. 


" When I went to receive the premium for Sir Karl Andin- 
nian — due on taking the house/' quietly explained Mr. Smith. 

" And who is she ? " 
., " She is a Mrs. Grey." 

" Oh — a married woman." 

*^ Certainly. A single lady, young as she is, would scarcely 
be living entirely alone." 

" But where is her husband ? " 

** Travelling, I beHeve. I understood her to say so.'' 

" She is quite young, then ? " 

'' Quite." 

*^ Is she good-looking ? " continued Miss Blake. 

" I have rarely seen any one so pretty." 

" Indeed ! What a strange thing that she should be hiding 
herself in this retired place ! " 

" Do you think so? It seems to me to be just the spot a 
young lady might select, if obliged to live apart for a time from 
her husband." 

** Of course there's something in that," conceded Miss Blake. 
** Does she visit at all in the neighbourhood ? " 

" I think not. I am sure not. If she did, I should see her 
go in and out. She takes a walk occasionally, and sometimes 
goes to church on Sundays. But she chiefly keeps in her shell, 
guarded by her two old domestics." 

In talking, they had crossed the road, and now halted again 
at the little gate of Clematis Cottage. Miss Blake asked if he 
knew anything about the ruins she had noticed further up : 
and Mr. Smith (who had introduced himself to her by name in 
a light, gentlemanly manner) said he did not, but he had a 
book of the locaUty indoors which he would refer to, if she 
would do him the honour of stepping into his little drawing- 

Rather fascinated by his courteous attentions. Miss Blake 
did so : and thought what a bright-looking, pretty drawing- 
room it was. The gentleman took off his green glasses 
(casually mentioning that he wore them out of doors as a pro- 
tection against the sun, for his eyes were not strong) and 
searched for the guide-book. The book, hov/ever, proved to 
be chiefly a book of roads, and said very little more of the 


monastery and the ruins than Miss Blake had heard from Tom 

"You have hurt your arm/^ she at length ventured to ob- 
serve, as he slowly drew it once or twice out of the sling, and 
seemed to use it with trouble. '* Any accident? " 

"An accident of long standing, madam. But the wrist con- 
tinues weak, and always will be so : next door to useless ; and 
I wear the sHng for protection." 

Miss Blake took her departure ; the gendeman escorting her 
to the garden-gate with much ceremony. In fact, it almost 
seemed as though he wished to make a favourable impression 
on her. 

" He is a gallant man," was Miss Blake's mental comment — 
"and a well-informed and pleasant one. I wonder who he is?" 

But her thoughts, veering round to many other matters, at 
length settled themselves upon the Maze and its young lady 
inmate. They quite took hold of her mind and held possession 
of it, even to the partial exclusion of Mr. Cattacomb and the 
promising ruins. 

In later days. Miss Blake said this must have been nothing 
less than instinct. 



Miss Blake carried her point. In a very short time the little 
wayside room in the ruins — call it chapel, schoolroom, barn, 
what you v/ill — was converted into a church and styled "St. 
Jerome." Setting to work at once with a will. Miss Blake had 
left not a stone unturned to accomplish her purpose. She 
pressed several of the young ladies in the village into the 
service. Nothing loth were they. Having heard of the divers 
merits of the Reverend Guy Cattacomb, they could only be 
desirous that so shining a light should come amongst them. 
Miss Blake herself brought all her rare energy, her unflagging 
perseverance to the task. When she took a cause to heart, 
no woman was so indomitable as she. 


As may readily be supposed^ a great deal had to be done to 
the room before it could be made what was wanted ; but con- 
trivance worked wonders. All the money Miss .Blake could 
spare she freely applied : it was not sufficient, and she wrote to 
sundry friends, begging contributions. She next went, with 
Miss St. Henry and Miss Moore, to some of the houses in the 
vicinity, to every one where it might be safe to go, asking for 
aid. This personal canvass was not always successful. Some 
professed not to understand why a second church was required, 
and gave shillings instead of pounds. One old lady, however, 
had her generous instincts so worked upon by the eloquence of 
Miss Blake (as much as she could hear of it, for she was very 
deaf, and her companion declared afterwards that she believed 
all the while she was giving to a new industrial school possess- 
ing a resident chaplain), that she handed over a cheque for 
fifty guineas. Miss Blake could not believe her eyes when she 
saw it : and she assured the old lady that every blessing of 
heaven would be showered down on her in return. Miss 
Blake's personal friends also contributed well — and the matter 
was accomplished. Not only was the chapel itself set up, but 
the stipend of Mr. Cattacomb assured for the first few months. 
To do Miss Blake justice, she wished all things to be religiously 
right, and she never entertained a doubt but that the place had 
once been duly consecrated. Her whole heart was in the work 
— always excepting a slight small corner of it that was still filled 
with her wrongs and Karl Andinnian. 

The early afternoon sun shone down on the bright flowers, 
the well-kept lawns of Foxwood Court, as Miss Blake stepped 
out of one of its windows, her walking costume perfect. She 
was always well-dressed : but to-day her toilet was more 
elaborate than usual. Standing for a moment to look round at 
the beautiful place, its complete order, there rose up in her 
heart one wild, angry thought — " But for Lucy, this would have 
been my own." A very mistaken assumption on Miss Blake's 
part, but who was to convince her of that ? Banishing the 
thought resolutely, she walked away at a brisk pace, as if 
running a race with time. It was a great day this. Two events 
were coming off in it that stirred Miss Blake to the core. The 
Reverend Mr. Cattacomb was expected by the four-o'clock 


train ; and Sir Karl and Lady Andinnian would arrive home 
for dinner. 

Miss Blake took the way to St. Jerome's Church, a very 
choice bouquet of hot-house flowers in her hand. Glancing at 
ihe gate of The Maze — in regard to which place her interest had 
not in the least abated— she bore onwards; and soon joined 
some groups of ladies, who were advancing to St. Jerome's by 
the more direct route from the village. They had appointed 
to meet that afternoon and put the finishing touches to the 
room ere it should be seen by its pastor — if indeed any touches 
remained to be done. Such a matter as this could not but 
have excited much comment at Foxwood ever since the first 
day that Miss Blake took it in hand. Prudent mothers, full of 
occupation themselves, warned their daughters against being 
" led away." The daughters, whose hands were idle, rushed 
to the new attraction, stealthily at first, openly afterwards. 
They grew to be as energetic in the cause as Miss Blake herself, 
and were in a fervour for the arrival of Mr. Cattacomb. 

Miss Blake opened the door and allowed the rest to file in. 
She stayed looking at something that did not please her— a 
wheel-barrow full of earth lodging right against St. Jerome's 
outer walls. 

" I should not wonder but it's that Tom Pepp who has left 
it there ! " said Miss Blake, severely. " The boy is for ever 
dodging about here — and brings other boys in his train. When 
Mr. Cattacomb " 

** Good afternoon, madam ! " 

Miss Blake turned at the address, and recognized Mr. Smith 
— his green spectacles on and his arm in a sling as usual. She 
had seen him once or twice since that first meeting, but he had 
only bowed in passing. 

" May I be permitted to enter ? " he asked, waving his hand 
at the church door. 

** Oh, certainly," she replied. *' Indeed, I hope you will become 
one of St. Jerome's constant worshippers." So he went in with 
the crowd of ladies. 

It certainly looked a sweet little place — as Jane St. Henry 
remarked aloud. Candles, flowers, crosses, scrolls — for Miss 
Blake knew exactly what would please Mr. Cattacomb. The 


common white-washed walls were almost hidden : mottoes, a 
painting or two, and prints lay closely on them, all of course of 
a sacred character. The plain straw-seated chairs stood pretty 
closely to each other. The other arrangements were as com- 
plete as funds, time, and space had permitted. Opening out 
from one side at the upper end, was a small vestry ; with a sort 
of three-cornered box in it that was to serve as a confessional. 
This vestry — which used to be the place where the school 
children put their hats and bonnets — had an objectionable 
modern window in it ; before which was hung a printed calico 
blind, securing shade from sun and privacy from gazers. 

Mr. Smith might have been a traveller, but in all his travels 
he had seen no place of worship like unto this. He was saying 
so to himself as he turned and gazed about through his green 
glasses. He took them off and gazed again. 

" Is it not charming, sir?'' asked Jane St. Henry. 

" It is rather small," was the response. 

" Oh that's the worst of it," said the young lady. *^ One 
cannot have everything at the beginning : there must always be 
some drawbacks. I know a church in London, not very much 
larger than this, where there are three sweet little private 
sanctuaries : here we have only one." 

"Sanctuaries?" repeated the agent, evidently not under- 
standing the term. 

** Confessionals. For confession, you know. We have only 
one here, and that is obliged to be in the vestry." 

" Oh, then the place is Roman Catholic ! " said Mr. Smith, 
quietly. *' I thought so." 

He had no intention of offending : it was simply what he in- 
ferred ; but Miss St. Henry gave a little shriek and put her hands 
to her ears. Martha Sumnor, a bold, showy girl, stepped up. 

" For goodness' sake don't call it that," she said. " Papa 
would go on at us, for coming here, worse than he does now." 

Mr. Smith bowed and begged pardon. He could not help 
thinking this was a daughter of the Vicar of the old church, but 
was not sure : and he wondered much. 

Even so. The two daughters of Mr. Sumnor had joined 
St. Jerome's. They and their mother had long set the Vicar 
at defiance. 


Foxwood was deemed a particularly healthy place. In the 
summer months, invalids were wont to resort to it from the 
neighbouring town of Basham. To meet these requirements, 
lodgings being scarce, a row of houses had been run up in the 
heart of the village, near where the old pound used to stand. 
It was called Paradise Row. Very pretty houses to look at ; 
perhaps not quite so good to wear ; stuccoed white fronts out- 
side, lath and plaster within. If the door of one banged, all 
the houses shook ; and the ringing of a sitting-room bell was 
heard right and left throughout the Row. 

It was in the middle house of these favoured dwellings. No. 5, 
kept by Mrs. Jinks, that the ladies had secured apartments for 
the Reverend Guy Cattacomb. The bow-windowed front 
parlour, and the bedroom behind it. Mrs. Jinks, familiarly 
called by her neighbours and friends the Widov/ Jinks, was 
beyond the middle age — to speak politely — with a huge widow's 
cap almost as black as the chimney, and a huge black bonnet 
generally tilted above it. She had deemed herself very lucky 
to find her rooms taken by the ladies for the new clergyman, 
boasting to her neighbours that it was of course a *^ permanent 
let : '^ but before the clergyman arrived, she had grown some- 
what out of conceit of the ^' let," so worried was she by the 
young ladies. Parties of them were always coming, bringing 
this, that, and the other for the comfort of their expected pastor, 
and calling the Widow Jinks to the door a dozen times in a day. 

Upon leaving St. Jerome's this afternoon, the ladies went in 
a body to Paradise Row, intending to await the advent of the 
Reverend Guy, and to see that butter and cream and other 
essentials had been had in for him. Miss Blake could have 
dispensed with so large a party — but what was she to do ? 
There they were, and stuck to her. All the way to the house 
they had been talking of Mr. Smith ; wondering who he was 
and why he had come to live at Foxwood. Miss St. Henry at 
length remembered to have heard he was a friend of the 
Andinnian family, and had been looking after things as agent 
during the absence of Sir Karl. 

*^ An agent ! " exclaimed Miss Blake, drawing herself up. 

" Not a common agent, of course. Does what he does out 
of friendship. Here we are." 


" Oh, that's very different," returned Miss Blake, giving a 
loud; long, important knock at the Widow Jinks's door. 

" Well, that is a shame of old Jinks ! " cried Jemima Moore, 
in an undertone to the rest as they were admitted and went 
into the parlour. 

For the Widow Jinks had not deemed it necessary to smarten 
herself up to receive her new lodger. She answered the door 
in her ordinary working costume : rusty black gown, huge cap 
and bonnet. Her face and hands vv^ere black too, as if she had 
been disturbed in cleaning pots and kettles. 

" She ought to be told of it. And did you see how sour she 

Miss Blake put the beautiful bouquet of hothouse flowers — 
which she had been carefully guarding — into a vase of water, 
for it was for Mr. Cattacomb they had been destined. Some 
light refreshment in the shape of wine and cake stood ready on 
the table ; and Mrs. Jinks was examined as to other preparations. 
All was in readiness, and the ladies waited with impatience. 

An impatience that at length subsided into doubt, and that 
into disappointment. The clock had gone ticking on; the 
train must have been in long ago, and it became evident that 
Mr. Cattacomb had not come. Miss Blake walked home 
slightly vexed : and there she found Sir Karl and Lady 

Things often go cross and contrary in this world. They had 
not been expected until later, and Miss Blake had intended to 
preside — if it may be called so — at both arrivals. As it hap- 
pened, she had presided at neither. It was in crossing the 
lawn, that Lucy, radiant, blooming, joyous, ran out to meet her. 

" Good gracious 1 " cried Miss Blake. 

" Oh, Theresa, how beautiful and happy everything is ! " 
cried the young wife, giving and taking the kiss of greeting. 
^* Karl has been showing me the rooms. Hewitt said you 
would not be long." 

'^ But when did you come, Lucy ? " 

** We came in by the four-o'clock train, and took a fly from 
the station. Karl, do you see Theresa ? " 

Karl was coming down the terrace steps to greet her. Mis« 
Blake advanced coldly. 


^'How do you do, Sir Karl ?" and the hand she put into his 
seemed limp and cold. He did not look blooming ; but worn, 
ill, and depressed. 

They entered the hall together, the rays from the coloured 
windows shining on them and on the tessellated floor, lighting 
all up with a cheerful brightness. The reception-rooms were 
on either side, the hall : they wxre what Sir Karl had been 
showing to his wife. Lucy declared it was the prettiest house 
she had ever been in. 

*'I like this room better than any of the grand ones/' spoke 
Miss Blake, leading to the little north room she generally sat 
in, where we saw her breakfasting with Mrs. Cleeve. 

*' It shall be called your room, then, Theresa,'' said Lucy. 
'* Oh yes, it is very pretty," she continued, looking at the light 
paper, flecked with gold, the light furniture with its crimson 
satin coverings, and the glass doors, wide open to the terrace, 
the flowers, and the smooth lawn beyond. 

" I believe this was the late Lady Andinnian's favourite 
room," observed Karl. 

*' Let me see," said Lucy, stepping out, "this must look 
towards the railway-station. Oh yes ; and Foxwood lies the 
other w^ay." 

Opposite to this window, some steps descended to the lawn 
from the terrace. In very lightness of heart, she ran down 
them. Karl was talking to Miss Blake. 

" There's a room answering to this in size and position on 
the other side of the house ; as of course you know," he observed- 
^' Sir Joseph, I hear, made it his business room." 

" Hewitt calls it Sir Karl's room, now," interrupted Miss 
Blake. '* You smoke in it, don't you, Sir Karl ? " 

" I did smoke in it once or twice when I was staying down 
here during the time of my mother's illness," he replied. '' But 
I am not a great smoker. Just one cigar at night : and not 
always that." 

" Did I see that room, Karl ? " asked his wife. 

" No, Lucy. It was hardly worth showing you." 

" Oh, but I shall like it better than all the rest, iif it's yours." 

" Come and see it then." 

She put her arm within his, and he looked down on her 


with a smile as they went through the house. Miss Blake 
walked behind with compressed lips. Sir Karl was greatly 
altered in manner she thought ; all his life and spirits had left 
him ; and he did not seem in the least glad to see her. 

The room on the other side had grey walls and looked alto- 
gether rather dowdy. Books and maps were on the shelves, 
a large inkstand stood on the table, and the chimney-piece was 
ornamented with a huge Chinese tobacco-box. 

'^ Now, Karl, that great arm-chair shall be yours, and this 
little one mine," said Lucy. '^ And you must let me come in 
when I please — although I can see it is to be your business 
room, just as it was Sir Joseph's." 

" As often as you will, my darling." 

He threw open the glass doors as he spoke, stepped across 
the terrace, and down the steps to the lawn — for this room 
answered in every respect to the other. This room faced the 
south ; the front of the house the west, and Miss Blake's favourite 
room the north. The sun's rays fell across the flower-beds. 
Sir Karl plucked one of the sweetest roses, and brought it to 
his wife. Lucy said nothing as she took it ; but Miss Blake, 
observant Miss Blake, saw the lingering touch of their hands ; 
the loving glance from Lucy's eyes to his. 

'^ Shall I show you your rooms upstairs, Lady Andinnian ? 
If you have not been up to them." 

" Thank you, I'll take Lucy myself," said Karl. " No, we 
have not been upstairs yet." 

The rooms they were to occupy lay in front, towards the 
north end of the corridor. The bedroom was large and 
beautifully fitted up. Just now Aglae had it in confusion, un- 
packing. Two dressing-rooms opened from it. Sir Karl's on 
the right — the last room at that end ; Lucy's on the left : and 
beyond Lucy's was another bedroom. These four rooms all 
communicated with each other : when the doors stood open 
you might see straight through all of them : each one could 
also be entered from the corridor. 

" But what do we want with this second bedroom ? " asked 
Lucy, as she stood in it with her husband. 

A full minute elapsed before he answered her, for it was the 
room where that strange communication, which was over- 


shadowing his hfe, had been made to him by his mother. The 
remembrance of the turbulent night and its starthng dis- 
closures was very present with him, and he turned to the 
window, and put his head out. 

^'They have not made any change, you see, Lucy: I did 
not give any orders. It was my mother's room during her 
short residence here. The next, that Httle dressing-room of 
yours, she made her upstairs sitting-room. Perhaps you would 
like to have this made into a sitting-room for yourself." 

" Nay, Karl, if I want to sit upstairs, I have my dressing- 
room. We will let this remain as it is. Is that Foxwood ? " she 
added, pointing to the roofs of houses and a church-spire in the 


"And what are all those trees over the way?" pointing 
rather towards the right : in fact to The Maze. " There are 
some chimneys amidst them. Is it a house ? " 


^^ A gentleman's house ? It must be pleasant to have neigh- 
bours so near, if they are nice people. Is it occupied, Karl ? " 

" I — I fancy so. The truth is, Lucy," — breaking into rather 
a forced laugh — " I am as yet almost as much of a stranger here 
as yourself Shall I call Aglae ? I'm sure you must want to 
take your bonnet off?" 

"Aglae's in there, you know; I am going to her. But first 
of all" — clasping her arms fondly round him and lifting her 
sweet face to his — " let me thank you for this beautiful home. 
Oh, Karl ! how happy we shall be in it." 

" God willing ! " he answered, in a tone of exquisite pain. 
And, as he held her to him in the moment's tenderness, his 
chest heaved with a strange emotion. 

" How he loves me," thought Lucy, passing to her own 
rooms. For so she interpreted the emotion. " I wonder if 
there ever was such love before in the world as his and mine? 
Aglae, I must wear white to-day." 

She went down to dinner in white muslin and white ribbons, 
with a lily in her hair, a very bride to look at. Poor girl ! it 
was a gala-day with her, this coming home, almost like her 
wedding-day. Poor wife ! 


The only one to talk much at dinner was Lucy. Miss 
Blake was not in one of her amiable moods : Karl and Lucy 
had both dressed for dinner : she had not, not supposing they 
would, and that helped to put her out. In this retired spot, 
and with her head filled with Mr. Cattacomb and St. Jerome's, 
Miss Blake had been almost forgetting that there existed such 
a thing as dressing for dinner. Karl was silent and grave as 
usual, just like a man preoccupied. His wife had become used 
to his air of sadness. She set it down, partly to the cause of 
the mysterious communication he had made to her the night 
before their marriage, and which had never since been 
mentioned between them, and partly to his ill-fated brother's 
trouble and shocking death. Therefore Lucy took the sadness 
as a matter of course, and never appeared to notice it. 

Miss Blake began to converse at last. She spoke of St. 
Jerome's : telling with much exultation all that had been done. 
But Karl looked grave. The sound doctrines and worship 
of what used to be called High-Church were his own : but he 
did not like these new and extreme movements that caused 

^'You say that this St. Jerome's is on my land, Miss 

" On your land. Sir Karl : but in Farmer Truefit's occupa- 
tion. The consent lay with him and he gave it." 

" Well, I hope you will have the good sense not to go too 

Miss Blake lifted her head, and asked Hewitt for some 
bread. Lucy's pretty face had flushed, and she glanced 
timidly at her husband. Remembering past days, she had not 
very much faith in Theresa's moderation. 

"When Mrs. Cleeve, knowing Lucy's inexperience and 
youth, suggested that I should stay here for some time after 
her return home. Sir Karl, if agreeable to you and to her, and 
I acquiesced, wishing to be useful to both of you in any 
possible way, I had no conception there was not a church open 
for daily worship in the place. I must go to daily worship. Sir 
Karl. It is as essential to me as my bread-and-cheese." 

" I'm sure I can say nothing against daily worship — to those 
who can make the time for it," rejoined Karl " It is not 


that I fear, Miss Blake. Think how beautiful the daily service 
was in Winchester Cathedral ! " 

"Oh, of course; yes," replied Miss Blake, in slighting 
tones ; the cathedral service was very well, as far as it went. 
But you need not fear, Sir Karl." 

" Thank you," he replied. " I am glad to hear you say so." 
And the subject dropped. 

The two ladies were alone for a few minutes after dinner in 
the north room. Lucy was standing at the open window. 

" Of course you know all about the place by this time, 
Theresa," she suddenly said. " There's a house over there 
amongst those trees : who lives in it ? " 

" Some lady, I believe, who chooses to keep herself very 
retired," repHed Miss Blake. 

" Oh, I asked Karl, but he could not tell me : he says he is 
almost as great a stranger here as I am. Theresa ! I do think 
that's a nightingale ! Listen." 

" Yes, we have nightingales here," said Miss Blake, in- 

Lucy crossed the lawn, and paced before the trees. The 
bird was just beginning its sweet notes. Karl came out, drew 
her hand within his arm, and walked with her until Miss Blake 
called out that tea was waiting. 

But Lucy was not yet very strong. She began to feel tired, 
and a sudden headache came on. When tea was over, Karl 
said she must go to bed. 

*^I think I will," she answered, rising. "If you will pardon 
my leaving you, Theresa. Good night." 

Karl went up with her and stayed a few minutes talking. In 
coming down he went straight to his smoking-room and shut 
the door. 

"Very polite, I'm sure !" thought Miss Blake, resentfully. 

But the next moment she heard him leave it and come 
towards the sitting-room. 

" I will wish you good night too. Miss Blake," he said offer- 
ing his hand. " Pray ring for anything you may require ; you 
are more at home, you know, than we are," he concluded, with 
a slight laugh. 

"Are you going to bed also, Sir Karl?" 


" I ? Oh no. I am going into my smoking-room. I have 
a letter to write." 

Now Miss Blake resented this frightfully. Lucy might go 
to bed ; it was best for her as she was fatigued ; but that Sir 
Karl should thus unceremoniously leave her to her own com- 
pany at nine o'clock, she could not pardon. As to letter 
writing, the post had gone out. It was evident he thought 
nothing of her, even as a friend ; nothing. 
■ Dropping her forehead upon her hands, she sat there she 
knew not how long. When she looked up it was almost dark. 
Her thoughts had wandered to Mr. Cattacomb, and she won- 
dered whether he would be arriving by the last train. 

Throwing a shawl over her shoulders, Miss Blake went into 
the garden, and thence by one of the small private gates into 
the lonely road. It was still and solitary. The nightingales 
were singing now, and she paced along, lost in thought, past 
The Maze and onwards. 

She had reached almost as far as the road to Foxwood, not 
having met a soul, when the advance of two or three passengers 
from the station told her the train was in. They turned off 
towards the village, walking rapidly : but neither of them w^as 
the expected clergyman. 

*^ What can have kept him ? '^ she murmured, as she retraced 
her steps. 

There was no moon, but the summer sky was light : very 
little, however, penetrated to the road through the overshadow- 
ing trees. Miss Blake had very nearly gained The Maze when 
she heard the approach of footsteps. Not earing to be seen 
out so late alone, she drew back between the hedge and the 
clump of trees at the gate, and waited. 

To her vexation, peeping forth from her shelter, she recognized 
Sir Karl Andinnian. He was stealing along under shadow of 
the hedge too — stealing along, as it seemed to Miss Blake, 
covertly and quietly. When he reached the gate, he looked up 
the road and down the road, apparently to make sure that no 
one was within sight or hearing. Then he took a small key 
from his pocket, unlocked the gate with it, entered, locked it 
after him again, and disappeared within the trees of the maze. 

To say that Miss Blake was struck with amazement would 

Within the Maze. 9 


be saying little. What could it mean ? What could Sir Karl 
want there ? He had told his wife he knew not who lived in 
it. And yet he carried a private key to the place, and covertly 
stole into it on the first night of his return ! The queer ideas 
that floated through Miss Blake's mind, rapidly chasing each 
other, three parts bewildered her. They culminated in one 
emphatically spoken sentence. 

" I should like to get inside too ! " 

Softly making her way across the road to enter the grounds 
of the Court by the nearest gate, she chanced to lift her eyes 
to Clematis Cottage. The Venetian shutters were closed. But, 
peering through one of them from the dark room, was a face 
that she was sure was Mr. Smith's. It appeared just as though 
he had been watching Sir Karl Andinnian. 



Still no signs of the Reverend Guy Cattacomb. The morn- 
ing following the night spoken of in the last chapter rose bright 
and sunny. Miss Blake rose with it, her energetic mind full 
of thought. 

" I wonder how I am to begin to keep house ? " said Lucy, 
with a laugh, when she rose from the breakfast-table, her face 
as bright as the pink summer muslin she wore. ^* Do I go into 
the kitchen, Theresa? '' 

"You go with the cook to the larder,'^ replied Theresa, 
gravely. *^ See what provisions remain in it from yesterday, 
and give your orders accordingly. Shall I accompany you this 
morning, Lady Andinnian ? " 

" I wish you would ! I wish you would put me in the way 
of it. In Paris, when I was going to be married, mamma re- 
gretted she had not shown me more of housekeeping duties at 

*' You have, I believe, a careful and honest cook : and that 
is a great thing for an inexperienced mistress," said Miss Blake. 

**As if cooks were ever dishonest in the country!" cried 


Sir Karl, laughing— and it was the first laugh Miss Blake had 
heard from his lips. **You must go to your grand London 
servants for that — making their perquisites out of everything, 
and entertaining their friends and the policeman ! '^ 

*'And then, Karl, when I come back, you will take me 
about everywhere, won't you ? '' whispered Lucy, leaning fondly 
over his shoulder as Miss Blake went on. ^' I want to see all 
about the grounds." 

He nodded, and let his cheek rest for a moment against hers. 
^^ Go and order your roast beef. And — Lucy ! " 

His manner had changed to seriousness. He turned in his 
chair to face her, his brow flushing as he took her hands. 

" You will not be extravagant, Lucy " — his voice also sinking 
to a whisper. ^^ When I told you of that — that trouble, which 
had fallen upon me and might fall deeper still, I said that it 
would cost me a large portion of my income. You remember ? " 

"Oh, Karl! do you think I could forget? We will live as 
quietly and simply as you please. It is all the same to me." 

" Thank you, my dear wife." 

Theresa stood at the hall-door, looking out from it whilst 
she waited. '^ I was thinking," she said, when Lady Andinnian's 
step was heard, ^'that it really might be cheaper in the end if 
you had a regular housekeeper, Lucy, as you are so inexperi- 
enced. It would save you a great deal of trouble." 

" The trouble's nothing, Theresa ; and I should like to 
learn. I would not think of a housekeeper. I should be afraid 
of her." 

'^ Oh, very well. As you please, of course. But when you 
have your whole staff of servants, the controlling of supplies 
for so many will very much embarrass you." 

" But we don't mean to have our house full of servants, 
Theresa. We do not care to set up on a grand scale, either of 
us. Just about as papa and mamma live will be sufficient for 
us indoors.'' 

" Nonsense," said Miss Blake. 

** We must have a coachman — Karl thinks he shall take on 
Sir Joseph's ; the man has asked to come to us — and, I suppose, 
one footman to help Hewitt ; and a groom. That's all. I 
think we have enough maids already." 


" You should consider that Sir Karl's income is latge, Lucy/* 
spoke Miss Blake, in tones of lofty reproach. *^It is absurd to 
take your papa's scale of living as a guide for yours." 

" But Karl does not mean to spend his income : he has a 
reason for saving it.*^ 

" Oh, that's another thing/^ said Miss Blake. " What is his 
reason ? '* 

Lucy could have punished her rebelHous tongue. She had 
Spoken the words, in the heat of argument, without thought. 
What right, either as a wife or a prudent woman, had she to 
allow such allusion to escape her lips? Her rejoinder was 
given slowly and calmly. 

f. " My husband is quite right not to begin by spending his 
whole income, Theresa. We should both of us think it un- 
necessary extravagance. Is this the kitchen? Let us go in 
here first. I must get acquainted with all my places and 

The business transacted, Lucy went out with Karl. Theresa 
watched them on to the lawn and thence round the house. 
Miss Blake then dressed herself and walked rapidly to St. 
Jerome's. Some faint hope animated her that Mr. Cattacomb 
might have arrived, and be already inaugurating the morning 
service. But no. St. Jerome's was closed, and no Mr. Catta- 
comb was there. 

She retraced her steps, lingering to rob the hedges of a wild 
honeysuckle or a dog-rose. This non-arrival of Mr. Cattacomb 
began to trouble her, and she could not imagine why, if he 
were prevented from coming, he had not written to say so. 
Reaching The Maze, Miss Blake woke up from these thoughts 
with quite a start of surprise : for the gate was open and a 
woman-servant stood there, holding colloquy with the butcher's 
boy on horseback : a young man in a blue frock, no hat, and 
a basket on his arm, A middle-aged, very respectable-looking 
servant, but somewhat old-fashioned in appearance : a spare 
figure, straight up and down, in a black-and-white cotton gown 
and white muslin cap tied with black ribbon. In her hand 
was a dish with some meat on it, which she had just received 
from the basket, and she appeared to be reproaching the boy 
on the score of the last joint. 


* This hot weather one can't keep nothing properly," said 
the boy, in apology. "I was to ask for the book, please, 

" The book ! " returned the woman. " Why, I meant to 
have brought it out. Wait, and Til get it" 

The boy, having perhaps a spirit of restlessness upon him, 
backed his steed, and turned it round and round in the road 
like a horse in a mill. Miss Blake saw her opportunity, and 
slipped in unseen. Gliding along the path, she concealed her- 
self behind a huge tree-trunk near the hedge, until the servant 
should have come and gone again. Miss Blake soon caught 
sight of her skirts in the trees of the maze. 

^* Here's the book," said she to the boy. ** Ask your master 
to make it up for the month, and I'll pay." And shutting 
and locking the gate, she retreated into the maze again and 

When people do covert things in a hurry, they can't expect 
to have all their senses about them, and Miss Blake had prob- 
ably forgotten that she should be locked in. However— here 
she was in the position, and must make the best of it. 

First of all, she went round the path, intending to see where 
it led to. It was fenced in by the garden wall, the high hedge 
and shrubs on one side, the trees of the maze on the other. 
Suddenly she came to what looked like a low vaulted passage 
built in the maze, which probably communicated with the 
house ; but she could not tell. The door was fast, and Miss 
Blake could see nothing. 

Pursuing her way along the walk, it brought her round to the 
entrance-gate again, and she remembered Tom Pepp's words 
about the path going round and round and leading to nowhere. 
Miss Blake was not one to be daunted. She had come in to 
look about her, and she meant to do it. She plunged into the 

Again had she cause to recall Master Pepp's account: — 
" Once get into that there maze and you'd never get out again 
without the clue." Miss Blake began to fear there was only 
too much truth in it. For a full hour in reality, and it seemed 
to her like two hours, did she wander about and wander again. 
She was in the maze, and could not get out of it. 


She stood against a tree, her face turning hot and cold. It 
took a great deal to excite that young woman's pulses : but she 
did not like the position in which she had placed herself. 

She must try again. Hither and thither, round and about, 
in and out, No ; no escape ; no clue ; no opening ; nothing 
but the same interminable trees and the narrow paths so 
exactly like one another. 

" What will become of me ? " gasped Miss Blake. 

At that moment a voice very near to her rose upon her ear 
— the voice of the servant she had seen. " Yes, ma'am, I'll do 
it after dinner." 

Unconsciously Miss Blake had wandered to the confines of 
the maze that were close to the house. A few steps further 
and she could peep out of her imprisonment. 

A small, low, pretty-gabled house of red brick. A sitting- 
room window, large and thrown open, faced Miss Blake ; the 
entrance-porch, of which she could catch a glimpse, fronted a 
lawn, surrounded by most beautiful flower-beds, with a green- 
house at the end. It was a snug, compact spot, the whole shut 
in by a high laurel hedge. On the lawn stood the woman- 
servant, spreading some pieces of linen to dry : Miss Blake 
made them out to be cambric handkerchiefs : her mistress had 
probably been speaking to her from the porch, and she had 
heard the answer. An old man, with either a slight hump on 
his back or a dreadful stoop, was bending over a distant flower- 
bed. He wore a wide, yellow straw hat, and a smock-frock, 
very much like that worn by the butcher's boy, only the boy's 
was blue and the old man's white. His hair was grey, and he 
appeared to be toothless : but in his prime he must have been 
tall and powerful. Miss Blake made her comments aloud. 

" What an extraordinary solitude for a young person to live 
in ! But what choice flowers those are ! That toothless old 
man must be the gardener ! He looks too old and infirm for 
his work. Why does she live here ? There must be more in 
it than meets the eye. Perhaps '^ 

The sohloquy was arrested. The door of the sitting-room 
opened, and a young lady entered. Crossing to the window, 
she stood looking at something on the table underneath, in full 
view of Miss Blake. A fair girl with a delicate face, soft. 


damask cheeks, blue eyes, and hair that gleamed like threads 
of light gold. 

" Good gracious ! how lovely she is ! ^^ was Miss Blake's 
involuntary thought. Could this young girl be Mrs. Grey ? 

The young lady left the window again. The next minute 
the notes of a piano were touched. A prelude was played 
softly, and then there rose a verse of those lines in the " Vicar 
of Wakefield " that you all know so well, the voice of the singer 
exceedingly musical and simple : 

* ' When lovely woman stoops to folly, 
And finds too late that men betray " 

Miss Blake had never in her life cared for the song, but it 
now bore a singular charm for her. Every word was distinctly 
heard, and she listened to the end. A curious speculation 
crossed her. 

Was this young girl singing the lines in character ? " Heaven 
help her then ! " cried Miss Blake — for she was not all hardness. 

But how was she, herself, to get away ? She might remain 
there unsought for ever. There was nothing for it but to 
show herself boldly. And, as the servant was then coming 
back across the lawn with some herbs which she had apparently 
been to gather, Miss Blake wound out of the maze, and pre- 
sented herself before the woman's astonished eyes. 

She made the best excuse she could. Had wandered inside 
the gate, attracted by the beautiful trees, and lost herself 
amongst them. After a pause of wondering consideration, the 
servant understood how it must have been — she had entered 
during her temporary absence from the gate when she went to 
fetch the butcher's book ; and she knew what a long time she 
must have been there. 

** I'll let you out," she said. '^ It's a pity you came in." 

Very rapidly the woman walked on through the maze. Miss 
Blake following her. There were turnings and twistings, amidst 
which the latter strove to catch some clue to the route. In 
vain. One turning, one path seemed just like another. 
' " Does your mistress live quite alone here ? " she asked of 
the servant. 

" Yes, ma'am," was the reply, more civilly spoken— for, that 
. the servant had been at first very much put out by the occur- 


rence, her manner betrayed. ^^ She's all alone, except for me 
and my old man.'* 

" Your old man ? '^ exclaimed Miss Blake, questioningly, 

**My husband,'* explained the woman, perceiving she was 
not understood. " He's the gardener." 

" Oh, I saw him," said Miss Blake. *^ But he looks quite 
too old and infirm to do much." 

^^ He's not as old as he looks — and he has a good deal of 
work in him still. Of course, when a man gets rheumatics, he 
can't be as active as before." 

'^ How very dull your mistress must be ! " 

^^Not at all, ma'am. She has her birds, and flowers, and 
music, and work. And the garden she's very fond of : she'll 
spend hours in the greenhouse over the plants." 

'^ Mrs. Grey, I think I have heard her called.'* 

'' Yes, Mrs. Grey." 

" Well now — Where's her husband ? " 

*^ She's not got a hus — at least — her husband's not here." 

The first part of the answer was begun in a fierce, resentful 
tone : but at the break the woman seemed to recollect herself 
and calmed down. Miss Blake was silently observant, ponder- 
ing all in her inquisitive mind. 

"Mr. Grey is travelling abroad just now," continued the 
woman. " Here we are." 

Yes, there they were, escaped from the maze, the iron gate 
before them. The woman took a key from her pocket and 
unlocked it — just as Sir Karl had taken a key from his pocket 
the previous night. Miss Blake saw now what a small key it 
was, to open so large a gate. 

" Good morning," she said. ^^ Thank you very m.uch. It 
was exceedingly thoughtless of me to stroll in." 

'^ Good day to you, ma'am." 

Very busy was Miss Blake's brain as she went home. The 
Maze puzzled her. That this young and pretty woman should 
be living alone in that perfect seclusion with only two servants 
to take care of her, one of them at least old and decrepid, was 
the very oddest thing she had ever met with. Miss Blake 
knew the world tolerably well ; and, so far as her experience 
went, a man whose wife was so young and so lovely as this wife 


would wish to take her travelling with him. Altogether, it 
seemed very singular : and more singular still seemed the 
stealthy and familiar entrance, that she had witnessed, of Sir 
Karl Andinnian. 

Meanwhile, during this bold escapade of Miss Blake's, Lady 
Andinnian had gone out on a very different expedition. It 
could not be said that Lucy had no acquaintance whatever at 
Foxwood before she came to it. She knew the Vicar's eldest 
daughter, Margaret, who had occasionally stayed with Mr. and 
Mrs. Blake at Winchester : the two clergymen were acquainted 
with each other, having been at college together. This morn- 
ing Lucy had started to see Miss Sumnor ; walking alone, for 
Karl was busy. The church, a very pretty one, with a taper- 
ing spire, stood in its churchyard, just through the village. The 
Vicarage joined it : a pleasant house, with a verandah running 
down the front ; a good garden and some glebe-land. 

On a couch in a shaded room, lay a lady of some thirty, or 
more, years of age ; her face thin, with upright lines between 
the eyebrows, telling of long-standing trouble or pain, perhaps 
of both ; her hands busy with some needlework. Lady Andin- 
nian, who had not given her name, but simply asked to see 
Miss Sumnor, was shown in. She did not recognize her at the 
first moment. 

" Margaret ! It cannot be you.'' 

Margaret Sumnor smiled her sweet, patient smile, and held 
Lady Andinnian's hand in hers. ^'Yes it is, Lucy — if I may 
presume still to call you so. You find me changed. Worn 
and aged." 

" It is true," candidly avowed Lucy, in the first shock to her 
feelings. " You look altogether different. And yet, it is not 
three years since we parted. Mrs. Blake used to tell me you 
were ill, and had to lie down a great deal." 

** I lie here always, Lucy. Getting off only at night to go to 
my bed in the next room. Now and then, if I am particularly 
well, they draw me across the garden to church in a hand- 
chair : but that is very seldom. Sit down. Here, close to me." 

'* And what is the matter with you ? " 

*^ It has to do with the spine, my dear. A bright young girl 
like you need not be troubled with the complicatipn of par- 


ticulars. The worst of it is, Lucy, that I shall be as I am for 

"Oh, Margaret!'' 

Miss Sumnor raised her work again and set a few stitches, as 
if determined not to give way to any kind of emotion. Lady 
Andinnian's face wore quite a frightened look. 

*^ Surely not for always, Margaret ! " 

*^I believe so. The doctor says so. Papa went to the 
expense of having a very clever man down from London ; but 
he only confirmed what Mr. Moore had feared.'' 

" Then, Margaret, I think it was a cruel thing to let you 
know it. Hope and good spirits go so far to help recovery, no 
matter what the illness may be. Did the doctors tell you ? " 

" They told my father, not me. I learnt it through — through 
a sort of accident, Lucy," added Miss Sumnor : who would not 
explain that it was through the carelessness—to call it by a 
light name — of her step-mother. " After all, it is best that I 
should know it. I see it is now, if I did not at the time." 

" How it must have tried you ! " 

" Oh, it did : it did. What I felt for months, Lucy, I cannot 
describe. I had grown to be so useful to my dear father : he 
had begun to need me so very much ; to depend upon me for 
so many things : and to find that I was suddenly cut off from 
being of any help to him, to become instead only a burden ! — 
even now I cannot bear to recall it It was that that changed 
me, Lucy : in a short time, I had passed, in looks, from a 
young woman into an old one." 

^' No no, not that. And you. have to bear it always ! " 

" The bearing is light now," said Miss Sumnor, looking up 
with a happy smile. " One day, Lucy, when I was in a sad 
mood of distress and inward repining, papa came in. He saw 
a little of what I felt ; saw my tears, for he had come upon me 
quickly. Down he sat in that very chair that you are sitting 
in now. ^ Margaret, are you realizing that this calamity has 
come upon you from God — that it is His will ? ' he asked : 
and he talked to me as he had never talked before. That 
night, as I lay awake thinking, the new light seemed to dawn 
upon me. 'It is ; it is God's will,' I said ; ' why should I 
repine in misery?' Bit by bit, Lucy, after that the light grew 


greater. I gained — oh such comfort ! In a few weeks more 
I seemed to he right under God's protection : to be, as it were, 
always in His sheltering arms : and my life is happier now 
than I can tell you, in spite of very many and constant trials." 

" And you manage to amuse yourself, I see," resumed Lucy, 
breaking the pause that had ensued. 

^' Amuse myself ! I can assure you my days are quite busy 
and useful. I sew — as you perceive, resting my elbows on the 
board; see, this is a pillow-case that I am darning. I read, 
and can even v/rite a note ; I manage the housekeeping ; and 
I have my class of poor children here, and teach them as before. 
They are ten times rnore obedient and considerate, seeing me 
as I am, than when I was in health." 

Lucy could readily believe it. " And now tell me, Margaret, 
what brought this illness on ? " 

" Nothing in particular. It must have been coming on for 
years, only we did not suspect it. Do you remember that when 
at the Rectory I never used to run or walk much, but always 
wanted to sit still, and dear Mrs. Blake would call me idle ? It 
was coming on then. But now, Lucy, let me hear about your- 
self. I need not ask if you are happy." 

Lucy blushed rosy red : she was only too happy : and gave 
an account of her marriage and sojourn abroad, promising to 
bring her husband some day soon to see Miss Sumnor. Next, 
they spoke of the new place — St. Jerome's, and the invalid's 
brow wore a look of pain. 

^' It has so grieved papa, Lucy. Indeed, there is no want of 
another church in the place ; even if it were a proper church, 
there's no one to attend it : our own is too large for the popula- 
tion. Papa is grieved at the movement, and at the way it is 
being done ; it is anything but orthodox. And to think that 
it should be Theresa Blake who has put it forward ! " 

^^The excuse she makes to us is that she wanted a daily 

" A year ago papa took to holding daily service, and he had 
to discontinue it, for no one attended. Very often there would 
be only himself and the clerk." 

^^I do not suppose this affair of Theresa's will last," said 
Lucy, kindly, as she took her leave and went home. 


Karl was out at luncheon, but they all three met at dinner : 
he, Lucy, and Miss Blake. Lucy told him of her visit to 
Margaret Sumnor, and asked him to go there with her on his 
return from London, whither he was proceeding on the morrow. 
Miss Blake had not heard of the intended journey before, and 
inquired of Sir Karl whether he was going for long. 

^^For a couple of days; perhaps three," he answered. ** I 
have several matters of business to attend to." 

'^ I think I might as well have gone with you, Karl," said his 

^' Not this time, Lucy. You have only just returned home 
from travelling, you know, and need repose." 

Miss Blake, having previously taken her determination, men- 
tioned, in a casual, airy kind of way, her adventure of the 
morning : not however giving to the intrusion quite its true 
aspect, and not saying that she had seen the young lady. She 
had " strolled accidentally " into the place called The Maze, she 
said, seeing the gate open, and lost herself. A woman-seivant 
came to her assistance and let her out again ; but not before 
she had caught a glimpse of the interior : the pretty house and 
lawn and flowers, and the infirm old gardener. 

To Miss Blake's surprise — or, rather, perhaps not to her 
surprise — Sir KarFs pale face turned to a burning red. He 
made her no answer, but turned to the butler, who stood behind 

^^ Hewitt," he cried sharply, " this is not the same hock that 
we had yesterday." 

^^ Yes, Sir Karl, it is. At least I — I believe it is." 

Hewitt took up the bottle on the sideboard and examined it. 

Miss Blake thought he looked as confused as his master. 
'^ He plays tricks with the wine," was the mental conclusion she 

Hewitt came round, grave as ever, and filled up the glasses 
again. Karl began talking to him about the wine in the cellar : 
but Miss Blake was not going to let her subject drop. 

*' Do you know this place that they call The Maze, Sir Karl ? '' 

'' Scarcely." 

" Or its mistress, Mrs. Grey ? " 

" I have seen her," shortly replied Karl. 


'' Oh, have you ! When ? " 

"She wrote me a note relative to some repairs that were 
required, and I went over." 

" Since you were back this time, do you mean ? " 

" Oh no. It was just after my mother's death." 

" Don't you think it very singular that so young a woman 
should be living there alone ? " 

"I suppose she likes it. The husband is said to be 

"You have no acquaintance with the people?" persisted 
Miss Blake. 

" Oh dear, no.'' 

" And going in with a key from his own pocket ! '* thought 
Miss Blake, as she drew in her lips. 

" Foxwood and its inhabitants, as I told Lucy, are tolerably 
strange to me," added Sir Karl. " Lucy, you were talking of 
Margaret Sumnor. How old is she ? " 

He was resolute in turning the conversation from The Maze : 
as Miss Blake saw. 1 What was his motive? All sorts of comical 
ideas were in her mind, not all of them good ones. 

" I'll watch," she mentally said. " In the interests of religion, 
to say nothing of respectability, 171 watchP 



" LucV, you Will come with me to the opening service ? '* 
Lady Andinnian shook her head. " I think not, Theresa.'* 
"Why, it would be quite a distraction for you," urged Miss 

Blake, using the word in the French sense. 

Sir Karl had been in London some three or four days now ; 

and Lucy, weary without him, was longing and looking for his 

return every hour of the livelong summer day. So she was 

proof against this offered temptation. 

**I don't think Karl would like me to go to St. Jerome's, 

Theresa. Thank you all the same." 

" Do you mean to make Sir Karl your guide through life, 


Lucy?" And Lady Andinnian, sincere and simple herself, 
detected not the covert sarcasm. 

'^ I hope I shall never do, or wish to do, anything that he 
would object to," was her answer, a sweet blush dyeing her 

" Well, if you won't appear at church, will you attend the 
kettle-drum afterwards, Lucy ? '' 

*^ The kettle-drum ! " echoed Lucy. '^ What kettle-drum ? " 

''We are going to hold one at Mrs. Jinks's — that is, in Mr. 
Cattacornb's rooms — for^the purpose of introducing him to some 
of his friends, and to organize the parish work." 

Lady Andinnian looked up in surprise. ** The parish work ? 
What can you be talking of, Theresa ? " 

" Oh, there will be district visiting, and that sort of thing. It 
must all be arranged and organized." 

"Will it not be interfering with Mr. Sumnor?" Lucy 
ventured to ask, after a pause. 

*'Not at all," was the answer, given loftily. Shall I 
come round this way and call for you as we return from the 
service ? " 

'^ Thank you, no, Theresa : I would rather not. I do not 
think I should myself much care for the kettle-drum." 

''Very well," coolly replied Miss Blake. ''As you please, of 
course, Lady Andinnian." 

The service at St. Jerome's was at length about to be 
inaugurated : for the Reverend Guy Cattacomb had duly 
appeared after a few days' delay, for which he satisfactorily 
accounted. It was to be held in the afternoon, this afternoon, 
he having arrived in the morning ; and Miss Blake, while 
talking to Lady Andinnian, was already dressed for it. She 
started forth alone : just as other eager women, most of them 
young, a few middle-aged, were starting for it, and flocking 
into St. Jerome's. 

Much inward speculation had existed as to what the new 
parson would be like ; and the ladies looked at him eagerly 
when he entered from the vestry to commence the service. 
They saw a tall young man in a narrow surplice, with a sheep- 
skin tippet worn hind before, and a cross at the back in the 
opening ; spectacles ; no hair on his face, and not very much 


on his head ; eyes very much turned up. Certainly, in regard 
to personal beauty, the new pastor could not boast great things ; 
but he made up for it in zeal, and — if such a thing may be said 
of a clergyman — in vanity ; for that he was upon remarkably 
good terms with himself and his looks, every tone and gesture 
betrayed. It was rather a novel service, but a very attractive 
one. Mr. Cattacomb had a good sonorous voice — though it 
was marred by an affected accent and a drawling delivery that 
savoured of insincerity and was most objectionably out of place. 
Miss Jane St. Henry played the harmonium ; the ladies sang : 
and their singing, so far as it went, was good, but men's voices 
were much wanted. There was a short sermon, very rapidly 
delivered, and not to be understood — quite after a new fashion 
of the day. During its progress, little Miss Etheridge happened 
to look round and saw Mr. Moore, the surgeon, at the back of 
the room. 

" If you'll believe me, old Moore's here ! " she whispered to 
Mary St. Henry. 

Yes, the surgeon was there. He had laughed a little over 
this curious new place that was being called a church, and said 
at home that day that he should look in and see what its 
services were to be like. He was more surprised than pleased. 
Just as Mr. Smith, the agent, asked. Is it Roman Catholic or 
Protestant? so did Mr. Moore mentally ask the question now. 
The place was pretty full. A few people had come over from 
Basham to be present. Mr. Moore's eyes went ranging amongst 
the chairs, scanning the congregation. His daughters were not 
there. They are too sensible, thought the doctor : though he 
did not give them credit for very much sense in general. The 
fact was, the Misses Moore had been afraid to come. Hearing 
their father say he should look in, they deemed it wise to keep 
away — and did so, to their own deep mortification and dis- 
appointment. Mr. Moore was an easy-tempered man, and an 
indulgent father ; but if once in a way he did by chance issue 
an edicts they knew it might not be disobeyed — and had he 
seen them there with his own eyes, he might have prohibited 
their going for the future. So they allowed policy to prevail, 
and remained at home. 

What with the opening service, and what with the coming 


party at Mrs. Jinks's, Foxwood was that day stirred to its centre. 
The preparations for the kettle-drum were on an exhaustive 
scale, the different ladies having vied with each other in sending 
in supplies. Butter, cream, dehcate bread and cakes, jam, 
marmalade, choice fruits, biscuits, and other things too numerous 
to mention. Miss Blake had taken a huge packet of tea, and 
some beautiful flowers, the latter offering cajoled out of old 
Maclean, the head gardener at the Court. 

The walk to St. Jerome's and back, together with the ex- 
citement of the new service, had made them thirsty, and it was 
universally agreed to take tea first, though only four o'clock, 
and proceed to business afterwards. The table groaned under 
its weight of good things, and Miss Blake w^as president-in- 
chief. The room was too small for the company, who sat or 
stood as they could, elbowing each other, and making much of 
Mr. Cattacomb. Tongues were going fast, Mr. Cattacomb's 
amongst them, and Miss Blake was getting hot with the work 
of incessantly filling cups from the teapots, when a loud knock, 
announcing further visitors, shook the street-door and the whole 
of Paradise Row. 

" Who can it be ? I'm sure we have no room for more.'' 

Mrs. Jinks went to see. Throwing open the front-door, there 
stood the Misses Moore. Though debarred from the opening 
service, they would not be done out of the kettle-drum. 

*'Are they here yet, Mrs. Jinks?" cried the young ladies 

"Yes, they are here," replied the Widow Jinks, her cap 
(clean for the occasion, and without a bonnet) trembling with 
suppressed WTath. 

" Oh dear 1 Has tea begun ? '^ 

** Begun, Miss Jemima ! it's to be hoped it's three parts over. 
I'll tell you what it is, young ladies : when I agreed to let my 
parlours to the Reverend Cattakin, I didn't bargain to keep the 
whole parish in kettle-drumming. Leastways, not to wait on 
*em, and bile kettles for 'em, and toast muffins for 'em by the 
hour at a stretch. I thought what a nice quiet lodger I should 
have — a single man, and him a minister ! Instead of which, I 
might just as well keep an inn." 

The young ladies walked on, wisely giving no answer, and 


entered the parlour. There they were presented to Mr. Catta- 
comb, and joined the tea-table. 

Kettle-drums, as we are all aware, cannot last for ever, and 
before six o'clock Miss Blake was on her way back to Foxwood 
Court. The discussion as to district visiting and other matters 
was postponed to another day, Mr. Cattacomb pleading fatigue 
(and no wonder) ; and Miss Blake — who was in point of 
fact the prime mover and prop and stay of it all — inwardly 
thinking that a less crowded meeting would be more conducive 
to business. As she was nearing the gates of Foxwood, she met 
Mr. Smith sauntering along, apparently out for an airing. 

*^ Good afternoon, madam ! " 

He would have passed with the words, but she stopped to 
talk with him. The truth was. Miss Blake had taken, she 
knew not why or wherefore, a liking for Mr. Smith. From 
the first moment she saw him he had possessed a sort of 
attraction for her. It must be said that she believed him to 
be a gentleman. 

" You were not at the opening service at St. Jerome's this 
afternoon, Mr. Smith ? " she said, half-reproachful ly. 

" Well, to tell you the truth, I thought I should be out of 
place there, as the congregation comprised only ladies,'' was 
his reply. '' Happening to be walking that way, I saw lots of 
them go in." 

" Foxwood cannot boast of gentlemen in the middle of the 
day; the few who reside here are off to Basham for their 
different occupations. But you are an idle man, Mr. Smith." 

'^ I am not always idle, I assure you. Miss Blake. I have 
Sir Karl Andinnian's interests to look after." 

" Oh, indeed ! As a friend, I presume ? " 

" Just so." 

" Well, you would not have been quite solitary if you had 
come into the church. Mr. Moore was there." 

"Ay. He looked in for five minutes, and came out laugh- 
ing. I don't know what amused him, unless it was to see the 
Miss Sumnors there." 

^^ I think you must have been watching us all — all who went 
in, and all who came out," said Miss Blake. The agent smiled 
as he disclaimed the imputation : and with that they parted. 

Within the Maze. 10 


^^ Those flowers were so much admired and appreciated, 
Maclean,'' said Miss Blake to the gardener as she passed the 
lodge, where he sat at tea with his wife with the door open. 
^^ There are no such hothouse flowers anywhere as yours." 

Maclean rose and thanked her for the compliment. She 
passed rapidly on, and entered the house by the window of the 
north room. 

^^ I wonder where Lucy is ? Dressing, perhaps ; or seated 
at the window looking out for her husband. Foolish child. 
Does he deserve that love?" 

Treading softly on the carpeted staircase, her knock at Lady 
Andinnian's door and her entrance were simultaneous. Lucy, 
in her white morning dress with its blue ribbons, was standing 
up beside her husband. His arm was round her waist, and his 
face bent down upon hers. 

It was an awkward moment for Miss Blake, who bit her lips 
as she stammered an apology. Lucy, blushing and laughing, 
drew away. Karl stood his ground, laughing too. 

" I did not know you had returned, Sir Karl." 

''I have just arrived; three minutes ago," he said, holding 
out his hand. *^ Lucy was telling me you had gone to a kettle- 
drum, and I saucily assured her she must have dreamt it. 
Fancy kettle-drums at Foxwood ! " 

They separated for the purpose of dressing, Miss Blake 
biting her lips still as she went to her room. The little matter 
had turned her hot and cold. Do as she would, she could not 
get rid entirely of her love for Karl Andinnian, in spite of the 
chronic resentment she indulged towards him. 

'^If this is jealousy," she murmured, sitting down to think, 
and undoing her veil with fingers that thrilled to their extreme 
ends, " I must indeed school myself. I thought I had learned 
to bear calmly." 

At dinner Sir Karl seemed in better spirits than usual. He 
told them he had been to the Opera to hear the new singer, 
lima di Murska, in ^^ Robert le Diable." 

" Oh, Karl ! — and not to have had me with you ! " cried 

" I will take you up on purpose, Lucy. You must hear her. 
In the song ^ Robert, toi que j'aime,' she electrified us all. I 


never heard anything Hke it in my Hfe. And she is very 
elegant on the stage. Her dresses are splendid.'' 

^' Was any one there that you knew? " 

^^I hardly looked at the house at all. I was in the stalls. 
The Prince and Princess of Wales were in the royal box.'' 

^' I am sure, Karl, it is a wonder to hear that you went ! " 

"True, Lucy; but my evenings hung heavily on my hands. 
What with Plunkett and Plunkett and other business matters, 
the days were busy enough : I used to wish the evenings were 
so too. I felt very dull." 

"Just as I have been feeling here, Karl, without you." 

His answer to his wife was only a look ; but Miss Blake 
wished she had not caught it. What had she done, that his 
love should have missed her to be lavished on this girl-child. 

" Sir Karl," she cried somewhat abruptly, ^' who is Mr. 

" I don't know," carelessly replied Sir Karl, whose thoughts 
were preoccupied. 

" Not know ! but is he not your agent ? — and a friend 

Sir Karl was fully aroused now. " Know who Mr. Smith 
is ? " he repeated — and he wished to Heaven in his secret heart 
that he did know. " How do you mean. Miss j- Blake ? 
He is Mr. Smith, and — yes — a sort of agent to me on the 

The latter part of the answer was given hghtly, half merrily, 
as if he would pass it off with a laugh. Miss Blake resumed. 

*^Is he not an old friend of the Andinnian family?" 

" Of some of them, I believe. I did not know him pre- 
viously myself." 

*' Who gave him his appointment ? " 

*'My mother. She considered it well to have some re- 
sponsible person here to look after my interests, as I was living 

" Do you not intend. Sir Karl, to make an acquaintance of 
him? — a friend?" 

For a moment Sir Karl's brows were heavily knitted. " I do 
not suppose I shall," he quietly said. 

^^ He seems a well-informed, agreeable man ; and is, I. con- 


elude, a gentleman," returned Miss Blake, quite in a tone of 

" I am glad to hear it/' replied Sir Karl, his manner some- 
what freezing. "And so, Lucy, you have had some of the 
neighbours calling here ? '' he continued, addressing his wife, 
and turning the conversation. 

" Oh, Karl, yes ! And you were not here to help me ; and 
I did not know any of them, and confused their names 
hopelessly one with another." 

" I should not have known them either," laughed Sir Karl. 
Miss Blake had some letters to write, and turned to them 
after dinner : she had been too much engaged with other things 
during the day. Tea was taken in early to the drawing-room, 
and afterwards she went back to her own room, the north 
room, to finish her writing by what little light remained. She 
saw Sir Karl and Lucy in the garden arm-in-arm, conversing 
together in low, confidential tones. Evidently they were all- 
sufficient for each other and did not miss her. 

Say what we will, it could only seem to Miss Blake a 
neglect and something worse, looking upon past matters in her 
own light ; and it told upon her cruelly. 

The evening drew on. She heard Lucy at a piano in the 
drawing-room, seemingly alone, trying a bit of one song and a 
bit of another. There was no doubt that Lucy thought 
Theresa was still busy and would not interrupt her. Miss 
Blake put up her desk and sat at the open window. By and 
by, when it was nearly dark, she threw a shawl over her 
shoulders, stepped out, crossed the lawn, and lost herself 
amidst the opposite trees. Miss Blake was that night in no 
mood for companionship ; she preferred her own company to 
that of Lucy or her husband. As we say of the cross little 
children, the black dog was on her back ; she did not listen 
even to the melody of the nightingales. 

*'But for St. Jerome's I would not stay another day here," 
ran her thoughts. *' I almost wish now I had not stirred in 
the church matter, but let the benighted place alone. As it 
is — and Mr, Cattacomb's come — why, I must make the best of 
it, and do my duty. Stay ! stay, Theresa Blake ! " she broke 
off in stern soliloquy. " Is this fulfilling your good resolution 


—to give up all and bear all ? Let me put away these most 
evil thoughts and work bravely on, and stay here cheerfully for 

Lucy's sake. It may be that she will want a friend, and I 

Oh, there he is ! " 

The last sentence related to Karl. She had gradually 
strolled round the house to the other side, which brought her 
in face of Sir Karl's room. The French windows stood 
wide open ; a lamp was on the table, by the light of which he 
seemed to be reading a note and talking to Hewitt, who stood 
near. Crossing the soft grass she drew within earshot, not 
really with any intention of listening, but in her mind's 
abstraction — what was likely to pass between Sir Karl and his 
servant that concerned her to hear ? With the bright lamp 
inside and the darkness without, they could not see her. 

" You must be very cautious, Hewitt," Sir Karl was saying. 
" ImpHcitly silent." 

'^ I have been, sir, and shall be," was the answer. " There's 
no fear of me. I have not had the interests of the family at 
heart all these years. Sir Karl, to compromise them now." 

"I know, I know, Hewitt. Well, that's all, I think, for 

Miss Blake passed again out of hearing, very slowly and 
thoughtfully. She had heard the words, and was dissecting 
them : it almost sounded as though Sir Karl and his servant 
had some secret between them. Stepping on the terrace, 
she was about to go in, when she heard Sir Karl enter the 
drawing-room and speak to his wife. 

" I think I shall take a bit of a stroll, Lucy." 
" To smoke your cigar ? Do so, Karl." 
" I — wonder — whether it is an excuse to go where he went 
the other night ? " thought Miss Blake, the idea striking her 
like a flash of lightning. ** I'll watch him. I will. I said I 
would, and I will. His family may have interests of their own, 
but Lucy and her family have theirs, and for her sake I'll 

Drawing the shawl over her head, she passed out at one of 
the small gates, crossed the road, and glided along under cover 
of the opposite hedge as far as The Maze. There she stood 
amidst the trees, sheltered from observation. The dress she 


wore happened to be black, for it was one of St. Jerome's fast- 
days, the shawl was black also, and she could not be seen in 
the darkness. 

It was a still night. The dew was rising, and damp seemed 
to exhale from the trees. The time passed, ever so many 
minutes, and she began to think she had come on a fruitless 
errand. " Or was it that Sir Karl was only lingering with his 
wife ? 

*^ Good gracious ! What was that? " 

A shrill shriek right over Miss Blake's head had caused the 
words and the start. It must have been only a night bird ; 
but her nerves — what few she had — were highly wrought to- 
night, and she began to tremble slightly. It was not a pleasant 
position, and she wished herself away. 

'^ I'll go," she mentally cried. ^' I wish I had not come. I 
— hope — Mr. Smith's not looking out, or he v/ill^ see me ! " she 
added, slowly and dubiously. 

The doubt caused her to stay where she was and strain her 
eyes at the opposite cottage. Was it fancy? One of the 
windows stood open, and she thought she saw a head and eyes 
peeping from it. Peeping, not openly looking. 

'* He must have seen me come ! " decided Miss Blake. 
" But surely he would not know me, wrapped up like this ! 
Hark ! " 

A very slight sound had struck upon her ear. Was it Sir 
Karl advancing ? Surely the sound was that of footsteps ! At 
the same moment, there arose another and separate sound; 
and that was close to her, within the gates by which she stood. 

^^Some one must be coming out!" breathed Miss Blake. 
" It's growing complicated. I wish I was safe away. Two 
pairs of eyes may see what one pair would not." 

Sir Karl Andinnian — for the footsteps were his — advanced. 
Very quietly and cautiously. Miss Blake could see that he 
had changed his dress-coat for another, which he had buttoned 
round him, though the night was close. Halting at the gate, 
he drew the key from his pocket as before, unlocked it, and 
passed in. Some one met him. 

*^ Karl ! I am so glad you have come 1 I thought you 
would ! I knew you had returned.^' 


It was a soft, sweet voice : the same voice, Miss Blake could 
have laid a wager on it, that had sung ** When lovely woman 
stoops to folly." Their hands met : she was sure of that. 
Perhaps their lips also : but she could not see. 

'^ Why, how did you know I was down again ? " he asked. 

*^ Ann came to the gate to answer a ring, and saw you pass 
by from the station." 

" Why are you out here ? " he resumed. '' Is it prudent ? " 

" I was restless, expecting you. I have so much to say. 
And, do you know, Karl " 

The voice sank into too low a tone to be audible to the 
thirsting ears outside. Both had spoken in whispers. Miss 
Blake cautiously stretched forth her head, to obtain a glimpse 
through the closely-barred gate. Yes : it was the lovely girl 
she had seen during that stealthy visit of hers : and she had 
taken Sir Karl's arm while she talked to him. Another 
minute^ and they both disappeared within the trees of the maze. 

Whether Miss Blake was glued to the tree she stood near, or 
whether it was glued to her, remains a problem to be solved. 
It was one of the tv/o. There she stood ; and leave it she 
could not. That the floodgates of a full tide of iniquity had 
suddenly been opened upon her was as clear to her mind as 
the light of day. Much that had been incomprehensible in 
The Maze and its inmates admitted of no doubt now. An 
instinct of this had been playing in her fancy previously : but 
she had driven it away as fancy, and would not allow herself to 
dwell on it. And now — it seemed as though she stood at the 
edge of a precipice, looking down on a gulf of almost unnatural 
evil, from the midst of which Sir Karl Andinnian shone out 
very prominently, the incarnation of all that was wicked and 
false and treacherous. But for the necessity of stillness and 
silence, Miss Blake could have groaned aloud. 

A few minutes, and she stole away. There was nothing to 
wait or watch for : she knew all. Forgetting about Clematis 
Cottage and the eyes that might be peeping from it, she re- 
entered the grounds of Foxwood and sat down on the bare 
terrace in the night to commune with herself. What should 
her course be ? Surely she ought to confide the secret to that 
poor girl, Lucy, whom the man had dared to make his wife. 


Let us render justice to Miss Blake. Hard though she was 
by nature, she strove to do her duty in all consciousness at all 
times and in all places. Sin she detested, no matter of what 
nature; detested it both as sin and for its offence against 
God. That Sir Karl Andinnian was living in secret, if not 
open sin, and was cruelly deceiving his innocent and un- 
suspicious wife, was clearly indisputable. It must not be 
allowed to go on — at least so far as Lucy was concerned. To 
allow her to remain the loving and trusting partner of this man 
would be almost like making her a third in the wickedness, 
thought Miss Blake in her anger. And she decided on her 

" And I— if I did not enlighten her, knowing what I know- 
should be countenancing and administering to the sin," she 
said aloud. '^ Good Heavens ! what a pit seems to be around 
us ! May I be helped to do right ! " 

Rising, and shaking the night dew from her hair, she passed 
upstairs to her own chamber. Lady Andinnian was moving 
about her dressing-room. Impulse induced Miss Blake to 
knock at the door. Not that she intended to speak then. 

"Are you undressing, Lucy?" she asked, an unconscious 
pity in her voice for the poor young wife. 

''Not yet, Theresa. Aglae is coming up, though, I think. 
It was dull downstairs by myself, and I thought I might as well 
come up. I could not find you anywhere. I thought you 
must have gone to bed." 

" I was out of doors." 

'' Were you? I called to you from the terrace, but no one 

'' Sir Karl is out, then ? " 

" He is strolling about somewhere," replied Lucy. " He 
does not sleep well, and likes to take half-an-hour's stroll the 
last thing. It strikes me sometimes that Karl's not strong, 
Theresa : but I try to put the fear trom me." 

Miss Blake drew in her lips, biting them to an enforced 
silence. She was burning to say what she could say, but knew 
it would be premature. 

" I will wish you good night, Lucy, my dear. I am tired, 
and — and out of sorts." 


*' Good night, Theresa : dormez bien," was the gay answer. 

"To waste her love and solicitude upon him!^'^ thought Miss 
Blake, as she stepped across the corridor with erect head and 
haughty brow. "I told Colonel Cleeve before the marriage 
that he was wild — little Dennet had said so — but I was put 
down. No wonder Sir Karl cannot spend his income on his 
home ! he has other ways and means for it. Oh, how true are 
the words of holy writ ! ^ The heart of man is deceitful above 
all things, and desperately wicked.' " 



The morning sun had chased away the dew on the grass, the 
hedgerows were giving out their fragrance, and the lark and 
blackbird sang in the trees. Miss Blake was returning from 
early service at St. Jerome's, or, as St. Jerome's people called 
it, Matins. 

In spite of the almost sleepless night she had passed, Miss 
Blake looked well. Her superabundance of hair, freshly 
washed up with its cunning cosmetics and adorned to perfection, 
gleamed as if so many particles of golden dust were shining on 
it : her morning robe was of light muslin, and becoming as 
fashion could make it. It was very unusual for Miss Blake to 
get little sleep : she was of too equable a temperament to lie 
awake : but the previous night's revelation of iniquity had dis- 
turbed her in no ordinary degree, and her head had ached 
when she rose. The headache was passing now, and she felt 
quite ready for breakfast. A task lay before her that day : the 
disclosure to Lady Andinnian. It was all cut and dried : how 
she should make it and when she should make it : even its 
very words were already framed. 

\' She would not so much as turn her eyes on the gate of The 
Maze : had she been on that side of the road she would have 
caught up her flounces as she passed it. Never, willingly, 
would she soil her shoes with that side of the way again by 
choice — the place had a brand on it. It was quite refreshing 


to turn her eyes on Clematis Cottage, sheltering the respectable 
single bachelor who lived there. 

Turning her eyes on the cottage, she turned them on the 
bachelor as well. Mr. Smith, in a light morning coat, his arm 
as usual in a black sling, was out of doors amidst the rose-trees 
on the little lawn, gazing at one of them through his green 
spectacles. Miss Blake stopped as he saluted her, and good 
mornings were exchanged. 

** I am no judge of flowers,'^ he said, ^' have not lived amongst 
them enough for that ; but it appears to me that this rose, just 
come out, is a very rare and beautiful specimen. '^ 

Obeying the evident wish — given in manner alone, not in 
words — that she should go in and look at the rose, Miss Blake 
entered. It was a tea-rose of exquisite tint and sweetness. 
Miss Blake was warm in her admiration ; she had not noticed 
any exactly like it at the Court. Before she could stop the 
sacrilege, Mr. Smith had opened his penknife, cut off the rose, 
and was presenting it to her. 

^' Oh, how could you ! " she exclaimed. " It was so beautiful 
here, in your garden." 

*^ Madam, it will be more beautiful there," he rejoined, as 
she began to put it in her waistband. 

^^ I should be very sorry, but that I see other buds will soon 
be out." 

** Yes, by to-morrow. Earth does not deal out her bounties 
to us with a sparing hand." 

Accompanying the resolution Miss Blake had come to the 
previous evening, and perfected in the night — in her eyes a 
very righteous and proper resolution ; namely, to disclose what 
she knew to Lady Andinnian — accompanying this, I say, was an 
undercurrent of determination to discover as many particulars 
of the ill-favoured matter as she possibly could discover. Stand- 
ing at this moment on Mr. Smith's grass-plat, that gentleman 
beside her, and the gates of The Maze in full view opposite, an idea 
struck Miss Blake that perhaps he knew something of the affair. 

She began to question him. Lightly and apparently with care- 
lessness, interspersed with observations about the flowers, she 
turned the conversation on The Maze, asking this, and remarking 


^* Lonely it must be for Mrs. Grey? Oh yes. How long 
has she lived there, Mr. Smith ? " 

"She came — let me see. Shortly, I think, before Mrs. 
Andinnian's death. '^ 

*^ Ah, yes. At the time Sir Karl was staying here.'^ 

*^ Was Sir Karl staying here? By the way, yes, I think he 

Miss Blake, toying with a spray of clematis, happened to 
look suddenly at Mr. Smith as he gave the answer, and saw his 
glance turned covertly on her through his green glasses. *^ He 
knows all about it,'' she thought, *'and is screening Sir Karl. 
That last answer, the pretended non-remembrance, was an 
evasion. Men invariably hold by one another in matters of 
this kind." Just for a moment there was silence. ' 

'* Mr. Smith, you may trust me," she then said in a low tone. 
" I fancy that you and I both know pretty well who it was 
brought the lady here, and why she lives in that seclusion. 
But I could never have believed it of Sir Karl Andinnian." 

Mr. Smith in his surprise — and it looked like very genuine 
surprise — took off his glasses and gazed at Miss Blake without 
them. He had rather fine brown eyes, she noticed. Not a 
word spoke he. 

"You wonder that I should speak of this, Mr. Smith — I 
see that." 

" I don't understand you, ma'am, and that's the truth." 

^' Oh, well, I suppose you will not understand. Sir Karl 
ought to be ashamed of himself" 

Whether it was her tart tone that suddenly enlightened Mr. 
Smith, or whether he had been only pretending before, there 
could be no mistake that he caught her meaning now. He 
put on his green spectacles with a conscious laugh. 

" Hush," said he, making believe playfully to hide his face. 
" We are content, you know, Miss Blake, to ignore these 

" Yes, I do know it, dear sir : it is the way of the world. 
But they cannot be ignored m the sight of Heaven." 
■ Nine o'clock striking inside the house reminded Miss Blake 
that the morning was getting on, and that she had best make 
haste if she wanted any breakfast. Mr. Smith held the gate 


open for her^ and shook her offered hand. She stepped on- 
wards, feehng that a mutual, if silent, understanding had been 
established between them — that they shared the disgraceful 

Had Miss Blake wanted confirmation in her belief, this ad- 
mission of Mr. Smith's would have established it. But she 
did not want it. She was as sure of the fact as though an angel 
had revealed it to her. The sight of her own good eyes, the 
hearing of her true ears, and the exercise of her keen common 
sense had established it too surely. 

" My task Hes plainly before me,'' she murmured. ^' It is 
a disagreeable one, and may prove a thankless one, but I will 
not shrink from it. Who am I that I should turn aside from 
an appointed duty? That it has been appointed me, events 
show. I have been guided in this by a higher power than 
my own." 

An appointed duty ! Perhaps Miss Blake thought she had 
been " appointed " to watch The Maze gates in the shadows of 
the dark night, appointed to track the private steps of her 
unsuspicious host, Karl Andinnian ! There is nothing in this 
world so delusive as self-sophistry; nothing else so deceives 
the human heart : more especially when it is hidden under a 
guise of piety. 

Miss Blake found her opportunity in the course of the 
morning. A shade of pity crossed her for the happiness she 
was about to mar, as she saw the husband and wife out together 
after breakfast, amidst the flowers. In Lucy's bright face, as 
she glanced perpetually at her lord and husband, there was so 
much of love, so much of trust : and in his, Karl's, there was 
a whole depth of apparent tenderness for her. 

*'Men were deceivers ever," angrily cried Miss Blake, re- 
calling a line of the old ballad. " It's enough to make one 
sick. But I am sorry for Lucy ; it will be a dreadful blow to 
her. How I wish it could be inflicted on him instead of on 
her ! In a measure it will fall on him — for of course Lucy will 
take active steps." 

Later, when Karl, as it chanced, had gone over to Basham, 
and Lucy was in her pretty little dressing-room, writing to some 
girl friend, Miss Blake seized on the opportunity. Shutting 


herself in with Lady Andinnian, she made the communication 
to her. She told it with as much gentle consideration as 
possible, very delicately, and, in fact, rather obscurely. At first 
Lady Andinnian did not understand, could not understand ; 
and when she was made to understand, her burning face flashed 
forth its indignation, and she utterly refused to beheve it. 

Miss Blake only expected this. She was very soothing and 

"Sit down, Lucy," she said. *^ Listen. On my word of 
honour, I would not have imparted this miserable tale to inflict 
on you pain so bitter, but that I saw it inust be done. For 
your sake, and in the interests of everything that's right and 
just and seemly, it would not have done to suffer you to remain 
a blind victim to the dastardly deceit practised on you by your 

" He could not so deceive me, Theresa ; he could not deceive 
any one," she burst forth passionately. 

" My dear, I only ask you to listen. You can then judge 
for yourself Do not take my word that it is or must be so. 
Hear the facts, and then use your own common sense. Alas, 
Lucy, there can be no mistake : but for knowing that, should 
I have spoken, think you? It is, unfortunately, as true as 

From the beginning to the end, Miss Blake told her tale. 
She spoke out without reticence now. Sitting beside Lucy on 
the sofa, and holding her hands in hers with a warm and loving 
clasp, she went over it all. The mystery that appeared to en- 
compass this young lady, living alone at The Maze in strict 
seclusion with her two old servants, who were man and wife, 
she mentioned first as an introduction. She said how curiously 
it had attracted her attention, unaccountably to herself at the 
time, but that now she knew a divine inspiration had guided 
her to the instinct. She avowed how she had got in, and that 
it was done purposely ; that she had seen the girl, who was 
called Mrs. Grey, and was *' beautiful as an angel," and heard 
her sing the characteristic song (which might well indeed have 
been written of her), " When lovely woman stoops to folly." 
Next, she described Sir Karl's secret visits ; the key he let 
himself in with, taken from his pocket; the familiar and 


affectionate words interchanged between him and the girl, who 
on the second occasion had come to the gate to wait for him. 
She told Lucy that she had afterwards had corroborative 
evidence from Mr. Smith, the agent : he appeared to know all 
about it, to take it as a common matter of ordinary life, and to 
be content to ignore it after the custom of the world. She said 
that Sir Karl had brought Mrs. Grey to The Maze during the 
time he was staying at Foxwood in attendance on his sick 
mother : and she asked Lucy to recall the fact of his prolonged 
sojourn here, of his unwillingness to leave it and rejoin her, 
his wife ; and of the very evident desire he had had to keep 
her altogether from Foxwood. In short, as Miss Blake put the 
matter — and every syllable she spoke did she believe to be 
strictly and unexaggeratedly true — it was simply impossible for 
the most unwilling listener not to be convinced. 

Lady Andinnian was satisfied : and it was as her death-blow. 
Truth itself could not have appeared more certain. After the 
first outburst of indignation, she had sat very calm and quiet, 
listening silently. Vexatious trifles excite the best of us, but in 
a great calamity heart and self alike subside into stilluess. 
Save that she had turned pale as death, there was no sign. 

"Lucy, my poor Lucy, forgive me ! I would have spared 
you if I could : but I believe the task of telling you was laid 
on. me.'' 

" Thank you, yes ; I suppose it was right to tell me, 
Theresa," came the mechanical answer from the quivering lips. 

"My dear, what will be your course? You cannot remain 
here, his wife." 

" Would you please let me be alone, now, Theresa ? I do 
not seem to be able to think yet collectedly." 

The door closed on Miss Blake, and Lady Andinnian bolted 
it after her. She bolted the other two doors, so as to make 
sure of being alone. Then the abandonment began. Kneel- 
ing on the carpet, her head buried on the sofa-pillow, she lay 
realizing the full sense of the awful shock. It shook her to the 
centre. Oh, how dreadful it was ! She had so loved Karl, so 
believed in him : she had believed that man rarely loved a 
maiden and then a wife as Karl had loved her. This, then, 
must have been the secret trouble that was upon him ! — which 


had all but induced him to break off his marriage ! So she 
reasoned, and supposed she reasoned correctly. All parts of 
the supposition, had she thought them well out, might not 
perhaps have fitted in to one another : but in a distress such as 
this, no woman — no, nor man either — is capable of working 
out problems logically. She assumed that the intimacy must 
have been going on for years ; in all probability long before he 
knew her. 

An hour or so of this painful indulgence, and then Lady 
Andinnian rose from the floor and sat down to think, as well 
as she could think, what her course should be. She was truly 
religious, though perhaps she knew it not. Theresa Blake was 
ostensibly so, and very much so in her own belief ; but the 
difference between them was wide. The one had the real 
gold, the other but the base coin washed over. She, Lucy, 
strove to think and to see what would be right and best to do ; 
for herself, for her misguided husband, and in the sight of God. 

She sat and thought it out, perhaps for another hour. Aglae 
came to the door to say luncheon was served, but Lady Andin- 
nian said Miss Blake was to be told that she had a headache 
and should not take any. To make a scandal and leave her 
husband's home — as Theresa seemed to have hinted — would 
have gone well-nigh to kill her with the shame and anguish it 
would entail. And oh, she hoped, she trusted, that her good 
father and mother, who had yielded to her love for Karl and 
so sanctioned the marriage, might never, never know of this. 
She lifted her imploring eyes and hands to heaven in prayer 
that it might be kept from them. She prayed that she might 
be enabled to do what was rights and to bear : to bear silently 
and patiently, no living being, save Karl, knowing what she 
had to endure. 

For, while she was praying for the way to be made clear 
before her and for strength to walk in it, however thorny it 
might be, an idea had dawned upon her that this matter might 
possibly be kept from the world — might be held sacred between 
herself and Sir Karl. Could she ? could she continue to live 
on at the Court, bearing in patient silence — nay, in impatient 
— the cruel torment, the sense of insult ? And yet, if she did 
not remain, how would it be possible to conceal it all from her 


father and mother? The very indecision seemed enough to 
kill her. 

Visitors drove up to the house in the course of the afternoon 
— the county families were beginning to call — and Lady 
Andinnian had to go down. Miss Blake was off to one of St. 
Jerome's services — of which the Reverend Guy Cattacomb was 
establishing several daily. Sir Karl came home while the 
visitors were there. After their departure, when he came to 
look round for his wife, he was told she had hastily put on her 
bonnet and mantle and gone out. Karl rather wondered. 

Not only to avoid her husband, but also because she wanted 
to see Margaret Sumnor, and perhaps gain from her a crumb 
of comfort in her utter wretchedness, had Lady Andinnian 
gone forth to the Vicarage. Margaret was lying as before, on 
her hard couch, or board ; doing, for a wonder, nothing. Her 
hands were clasped meekly before her on her white wrapper, 
her eyelids seemed heavy with crying. But the eyes smiled a 
cheerful greeting to Lady Andinnian. 

" Is anything the matter, Margaret ? '' 

It was but the old story, the old grievance ; Margaret Sumnor 
was pained by it, more or less, nearly every day of her life — ■ 
the home treatment of her father : the contempt shown to him 
by his second family ; ay, and by his wife. 

" It is a thing I cannot talk of much, Lucy. I should not 
speak of it at all, but that it is well known to Foxwood, and com- 
mented on openly. Caroline and Martha set papa at naught 
in all ways : the insolence of their answers to him, both in 
words and manner, brings the blush of pain and shame to his 
face. This time the trouble was about that new place of Miss 
Blake's, St. Jerome's. Papa forbade them to frequent it ; but 
it was just as though he had spoken to a stone — in fact, worse ; 
for they retorted and set him at defiance. They wanted daily 
service, they said, and should go where it was held. So now 
papa, I believe, thinks of resuming his daily services here at 
Trinity, hoping it may counteract the other. There, that's 
enough of home and my red eyes. Lucy, you don't look well." 

Lady Andinnian drew her chair quite close to the invalid, so 
that she might let her hand rest in the one held out for her. 

^'I have a trouble too, Margaret," she whispered. "A 



dreadful, sudden trouble, a blow; and I think it has nearly 
broken my heart. I cannot tell you what it is ; I cannot tell 
any one in the world " 

** Except your husband," interposed Miss Sumnor. ^^ Never 
have any concealments from him, Lucy." 

Lady Andinnian's face turned red and white with embarrass- 
ment. " Yes, him ; I shall have to speak to him," she said, in 
some hesitation : and Miss Sumnor's deep insight into others' 
hearts enabled her to guess that the trouble had something to 
do with Sir Karl. She suspected it was that painful thing to a 
young wife — a first quarrel. 

"I am not like you, Margaret — ever patient, ever good," 
faltered poor Lady Andinnian. " I seem to be nearly torn 
apart with conflicting thoughts — perhaps I ought to say 
passions — and I thought I would come to you for a word of 
advice and comfort. There are two ways in which I can act 
in this dreadful matter ; and indeed that word is no exaggera- 
tion, for it is very dreadful. The one would be to make a stir 
in it, take a high tone, and set forth my wrongs ; that would be 
revenge ; proper, just revenge ; but I hardly know whether it 
would be right, or bring right. The other way would be to 
put up with the evil in silence, and bear ; and leave the future 
to God. Which must I do ? " 

Margaret Sumnor turned as much as she could without 
assistance, and laid both her hands imploringly on Lady 

" Lucy ! choose the latter. I have seen, oh, so much of 
this revenge, and of how it has worked. My dear, I believe in 
my honest heart that this revenge was never yet taken but it 
was repented of in the end. However grave the justifying 
cause and cruel the provocation, the time would come when it 
was heartily and bitterly regretted, when its actor would say, 
* Oh that I had not done as I did, that I had chosen the more 
merciful part ! ' " 

There was a brief silence. Miss Sumnor resumed. 

" ' Vengeance is mine ; 1 will repay ; ' you know Who says 
that, Lucy ; but you cannot know what I have seen and 
marked so often — that when vengeance is taken into human 
hands it somehow defeats itself. It may inflict confusion and 

within the Maze. 11 


ruin on the adversary ; but it never fails to tell in some way on 
the inflictor. It may be only in mental regret : regret that 
may not set in until after long years, but rely upon it, he never 
fails, in his remorseful heart, to wish the past could be undone. 
A regret, such as this, we have to carry with us to the grave ; 
for it can never be remedied; the revengeful act cannot be 
blotted out. It has been done, and it stands with its con- 
sequences for ever ; consequences, perhaps, that we never 
could have foreseen." 

Lady Andinnian sat listening with drooping face. A softer 
expression stole over it. 

" There is one thing we never can repent of, Lucy : and that 
is, of choosing the path of mercy. It brings a balm to the 
sorely-chafed spirit, and heals in time. Do you choose it, my 
dear. I urge it on you with my whole heart." 

*^I think I will, Margaret; I think I will," she answered, 
raising for a moment her wet eyes. " It will mortify my pride 
and my self-esteem : be always mortifying them ; and I shall 
need a great deal of patience to bear." 

'^ But you will be able to bear ; to bear all ; you know where 
to go for help. Do this, Lucy ; and see if in the future you 
do not find your reward. In after-years, it may be that your 
heart will go up with a great bound of joy and thankfuiness. 
* I did as Margaret told me,' you will say, ^ and bore.' Oh, if • 
men and women only knew the future they lay up for them- 
selves according as their acts shall be !— the remorse or the 

Lucy rose and kissed her. ^^ It shall be so, Margaret," she 
whispered. And she went away without another word. 

She strove to keep the best side uppermost in her mind as 
she went home. Her resolution was taken ; and perhaps 
because it was taken, the temptation to act otherwise and to 
choose revenge, rose up in all manner of attractive colours. 
She could abandon her ill-doing husband and start, even that 
night, for her parents' home ; reveal the whole, and claim their 
protection against him. This would be to uphold her pride 
and her womanly self-respect : but oh, how it would pain 
them ! And they had given their consent to the marriage 
against their better judgment for her sake ; so to say, against 


their will. No ; she could not, for very shame tell them ; and 
she prayed again that they might never know it. 

" I can take all the pain upon myself, and bear it without 
sign for their sakes/' she mentally cried. **0h yes, and for 
mine, for the exposure would kill me. I can bear this : I 
must take it up as my daily and nightly cross ; but I could not 
bear that my own dear father and mother, or the friends of my 
girlhood, should know he is faithless to me — that he never 
could have loved me. Theresa, the only one cognizant of it, 
will be silent for my sake." 

Bitter though the decision was, Lucy could only choose it. 
She had believed Karl Andinnian to be one of the few good 
men of the earth ; she had made him her idol ; all had seen it. 
I'o let them know that the idol had fallen from its pedestal, 
and so fallen, would reflect its disgrace on her, and be more 
than human nature could encounter. 

Her interview with Karl took place that evening. She had 
managed, except at dinner^ to avoid his presence until then. 
It was held in her dressing-room at the dusk hour. He came 
up to know why she remained there alone and what she was 
doing. In truth, she had been schooling herself for this very 
interview, which had to be got over before she went to 
rest. The uncertainty of what she could say was troubling 
her, even the very words she should use caused her perplexity. 
In her innate purity, her sensitively refined nature, she could 
not bring herself to speak openly to her husband upon topics 
of this unpleasant kind. That fact rendered the explanation 
more incomplete and complicated than it would otherwise have 
been. He had come up, and she nerved herself to the task. 
As good enter on it now as an hour later. 

" I — I want to speak to you, Sir Karl." 

He was standing by the open window, and turned his head 
quickly. Sir Karl ! '' What's amiss, Lucy ? " he asked. 

"I — I — I know all about your secret at The Maze," she said 
with a great burst of emotion, her chest heaving, her breath 

Sir Karl started as though he had been shot. His very lips 
turned of an ashy whiteness. 

" Lucy ! You cannot know it ! " 


^^ Heaven knows I do," she answered. " I have learnt it all 
this day. Oh, how could you so deceive me ? " 

Karl's first act was to dart to the door that opened on the 
corridor and bolt it. He then opened the two doors leading to 
the chambers on either side, looked to see that no one was in 
either of them, shut the doors again, and bolted them. 

^' Sir Karl, this has nearly killed me." 

" Hush ! " he breathed. ** Don't talk of it aloud, for the love 
of Heaven 1 " 

^* Why did you marry me ? " she asked. 

*^ Why, indeed," he retorted^ his voice one of sad pain. " I 
have reproached myself enough for it since, Lucy." 

She was silent. The answer angered her; and she had 
need of all her best strength, the strength she had so prayed 
for, to keep her lips from a cruel answer. She sat in her low 
dressing-chair, gazing at him with reproachful eyes. 

He said no more just then. Well-nigh overwhelmed with 
the blow, he stood back against the window-frame, his arms 
folded, his face one of pitiful anguish. Lucy, his wife, had 
learned the dreadful secret that was destroying his own peace, 
and that he had been so cunningly planning to conceal. 

" How did you learn it ? " he asked. 

'^ I shall never tell you," she answered, widi quiet firmness, 
resolved not to make mischief by betraying Theresa. " I know 
it, and that is enough. Put it down, if you choose, that it was 
revealed to me by accident — or that I guessed it." 

" But^ Lucy, it is necessary that I should know." 

" I have spoken. Sir Karl. I will never tell you." 

The evening breeze came wafting into that room of pain ; 
cooling, it might be, their fevered brows, though they were not 
conscious of it. Lady Andinnian resumed. 

^' The unpardonable deceit you practised on my father and 
"mother " 

Sir Karl's start of something like horror interrupted her. 
" They must not know it, Lucy. In mercy to us all, you must 
join with me in conceaUng it from them." 

" It was very wicked of you to have concealed it from them J 
at all. At least, to have married me with such a secret — for ll 
conclude you could not have really dared to tell them. They! 


deserved better at your hands. I was their only daughter : all 
they had to love." 

" Yes, it was wrong. I have reproached myself since, worse 
than you can reproach me. But I did not know the worst 

She turned from him proudly. *^ I — I wanted to tell you, 
Sir Karl, that I for one will never forgive or forget your false- 
hood and deceit ; and, what I am about to say, I say for my 
father and mother's sake. I will keep it from them, always 
if I can ; I will bury it within my own breast, and remain on 
here in your home, your ostensible wife. I had thought of 
leaving your house for theirs, never to return ; but the exposure 
it would bring frightened me; and, in truth, I shrink from the 

" What do you mean ? " he exclaimed. " My ' ostensible ' 

" I shall never be your wife again in reality. That can be 
your room " — pointing to the one they had jointly occupied ; 
" this one is mine," indicating the chamber on the other hand. 
" Aglae has already taken my things into it." 
., Sir Karl stood gazing at her, lost in surprise. 

"No one but ourselves need know of this," she resumed, 
her eyes dropping before the tender, pitiful gaze of his. **The 
arrangements are looked upon by Aglae as a mere matter of 
convenience in the warm weather ; the servants will so under- 
stand it. I would spare us both gossip. For your sake and 
for mine I am proposing this middle course — to avoid the 
scandal that otherwise must ensue. I shall have to bear, Karl 
— to bear — " her heart nearly failed her in its bitter grief— 
"but it will be better than a public separation." 

"You cannot mean what you say," he exclaimed. "Live 
apart from me ! The cause cannot justify it." 

" It scarcely becomes you to say this. Have you forgotten 
the sin ? " she added in a whisper. 

"The sin? Well, of course it was sin — crime, rather. But 
that is of the past." 

She thought she understood what he wished to imply, and 
bit her lips to keep down their bitter words. He was surely 
treating her as the veriest child, striving to hoodwink her still ! 


That he was agitated almost beyond control, she saw : and did 
not wonder at. 

" The sin is past," he repeated. " No need to recall it or 
talk of it." 

*^ Be it so," she scornfully said. " Its results remain. This^ 
I presume, was the great secret you spoke of the night before 
our marriage." 

" It was. And you see now, Lucy, why I did not dare to 
speak more openly. I grant that it would have been enough 
to prevent our marriage had you then so willed it : but, being 
my wife, it is not any sufficient cause for you to separate 
yourself from me." 

And, in answer to a question of mine, he could boast that 
night of his innocence ! ran her indignant thoughts. 

'*I am the best judge of that," she said aloud, in answer. 
*^ Not sufficient cause ! I wonder you dare say it. It is an 
outrage on all the proprieties of life. You must bring — them 
— to The Maze here, close to your roof and mine 1 " 

In her shrinking reticence, she would not mention to him 
the girl in plain words ; she would not even say *^ her," but 
substituted the term " them," as though speaking of Mrs. Grey 
and her servants collectively. Sir Karl's answer was a hasty 

^^ That was not my doing. That coming to The Maze was 
the greatest mistake ever made. I was powerless to help it.'^ 

Again she believed she understood. That when Sir Karl 
had wished to shake off certain trammels, he found himself not 
his own master in the matter, and could not do so. 

'^ And so you submitted ? " she scornfully said. 

" I had no other choice, Lucy." 

*^ And you pay your visits there ! '^ 

*' Occasionally. I cannot do otherwise." 

*'Does it never occur to you to see that public exposure 
may come ? " she continued, in the same contemptuous tone. 
For the time, Lucy Andinnian's sweet nature seemed wholly 
changed. Every feeling she possessed had risen up against 
the bitter insult thrust upon her — and Sir Karl seemed to be 
meeting it in a coolly insulting spirit. 

" The fear of exposure is killing me, Lucy," he breathed, his 


voice failing with painful emotion. '* I have been less to 
blame than you imagine. Let me tell you the story from the 
beginning, and you will see that " 

'' I will not hear a word of it," burst forth Lucy. " It is not 
a thing that should be told to me. At any rate, I will not 
hear it." 

*^ As you please, of course ; I cannot force it on you. My 
life was thorny enough before : I never thought that, even if 
the matter came to your knowledge, you would take it up in 
this cruel manner, and add to my pain and perplexity." 

" It is for The Mazet hat we have to be economical here ! " 
she rejoined, partly as a question, her hand laid upon her 
rebellious bosom. 

^^ Yes, yes. You see, Lucy, in point of fact " 

'^ I see nothing but what I do see. I wish to see no 

Sir Karl looked searchingly at her face, as though he could 
not understand her. Could this be his own loving and gentle 
Lucy ? It was indeed difficult to think so. 

" In a day or two, when you shall have had time to recover 
from the blow, Lucy — and a blow I acknowledge it to be — 
you will, I hope, judge me more leniently. You are my wife,^ 
and I will not give you up : there is no real cause for it. 
When you shall be calmer, you may feel sorry for some things 
you have said now." 

**Sir Karl, listen: and take your choice. I will stay on in 
your house on the terms I have mentioned, and they shall be 
perfectly understood and agreed to by both of us ; or I will 
leave it for the protection of my father's home. In the latter 
case I shall have to tell him why. It is for you to choose." 

" Have you well weighed what your telling would involve ? " 

" Yes ; exposure : and it is that I wish to avoid. If it has 
to come, it will be your fault. The choice lies with you. My 
decision is unalterable." 

Sir Karl Andinnian wiped his brow of the fever-dews 
gathered there. It was a bitter moment : and he considered 
that his wife was acting with most bitter harshness. But no 
alternative was left him, for he dared not risk exposure and its 
awful consequences. 


And soj that was the decision. They were to live On, 
enemies, under the same roof ; or at best, not friends. The 
interview lasted for some time; but no further explanation 
took place between them ; and, when they parted, they parted 
under a mutual and total misapprehension which neither of the 
two knew or suspected. Misapprehension had existed through- 
out the interview— and was to exist. It was one of those 
miserable cases that now and then occur in the world— a mutual 
misunderstanding, for which no one is to blame. Sometimes 
it is never set right on this side the grave. 

Her heart was aching, just as much as his. She loved him 
passionately, and she was calming down from her anger to a 
softer mood, such as parting always brings. "Will you not 
send the — the people away ? " she whispered, in a last word, 
and with a burst of grief. 

"If I can I will," was his answer. '^I am hemmed in, 
Lucy, by all kinds of untoward perplexities, and I cannot do 
as I would. Good night. I never could have believed you 
would take it up like this.'' 

They shook hands and parted. The affair had been at last 
amicably arranged, so to say : the separation was begun. And 
so Sir Karl and Lady Andinnian were henceforth divided, and 
the household knew it not. 

Miss Blake did not suspect a word of it. She saw no signs 
of any change — for outwardly Karl and his wife were civil and 
courteous to each other as usual, meeting at meals, present 
together in daily intercourse. After a few days. Miss Blake 
questioned Lady Andinnian. 

" Surely you have not been so foohshly soft as to condone 
that matter, Lucy ? " 

But Lucy wholly refused to satisfy her. Nay, she smiled ; 
and she as good as tacitly let Miss Blake suppose that she 
might have been soft and foolish. Not even to her, or to any 
other living being, would Lucy betray what was sacred between 
herself and her husband. 

"I am content to let it rest, Theresa: and I must 
request that you will do the same. Sir Karl and I both 
wish it.'' 

Miss Blake caught the smile and the gently evasive words, 


and was struck mute at Lucy's sin and folly. She quite 
thought Lucy ought to have an atonement offered up for her 
at St. Jerome's. Surely Eve was not half so frail and foolish 
when she took the apple ! 



The Maze was an old-fashioned, curious house inside, full of 
angles and passages and nooks and corners. Its rooms were 
small, and not many in number, the principal ones being fitted 
up with dark mahogany wainscoting. The windows were all 
casement windows with the exception of two : into those, 
modern sashes of good size had been placed by the late owner 
and occupant, Mr, Throcton. At Mr. Throcton's death the 
property was put up for sale and was bought by Sir Joseph 
Andinnian, furniture and all, just as it stood. Or, it may 
rather be said, was bought by Lady Andinnian ; for the whim 
to buy it was hers. Just after the purchase had been com- 
pleted. Lady Andinnian sickened and died. Sir Joseph, ill at 
the time, did nothing whatever with the new place ; so that on 
his death it came into the possession of his heirs in exactly the 
same state as when it was purchased. They let it be also, and 
it remained shut up. According to what Mr. Smith informed 
Miss Blake — and he was in the main correct, though not 
quite so — Mrs. Grey had come to it and taken possession while 
Mrs. Andinnian lay ill at Foxwood and her son Karl was in 
attendance on her. But the little fable the agent had made 
use of— that he had gone over to The Maze to receive the 
premium from Mrs. Grey on taking possession — had no 
foundation in fact. He had certainly- gone to The Maze.and 
seen the lady called Mrs. Grey, but not to receive a premium, 
for she paid none. 

The two rooms into which sash windows had been placed 
were — the one that faced Miss Blake when she had penetrated 
to the confines of The Maze on that unlucky day, and within 


which she had seen the unconscious Mrs. Grey ; and the one 
above it. They were at the end of the house, looking towards 
the entrance-gates. Into this upper room the reader must pay 
a night visit. It was used as a sitting-room. The same dark 
mahogany wainscoting Hned the walls as in the room below, 
the furniture was dark and heavy-looking ; and, in spite of the 
sultry heat of the night, the shutters were closed before the 
window, and dull crimson curtains of damask wool were drawn 
across them. There was nothing bright in the appendages of 
the room, except the lighted lamp on the table and a crystal 
vase of hothouse flowers. 

Seated at the table at work — making an infant's frock — was 
Mrs. Grey. Opposite to her, in the space between the table 
and the fireplace, sat Sir Karl ; and by her side, facing him — 
Adam Andinnian. 

It is more than probable that this will be no surprise to the 
reader ; that he has already divined the truth of the secret, and 
all the miserable complication it had brought and was bringing 
in its train. It was not Adam Andinnian who had died in 
that fatal affray off Portland Island — or more strictly speaking, 
off Weymouth — but one of the others who had been concerned 
in it. 

Yes, there he sat, in life and in health ; his speech as free, his 
white and beautiful teeth not less conspicuous than of yore — Sir 
Adam Andinnian. Karl, sitting opposite with his grave, sad 
face, was not in reality Sir Karl, and never had been. 

But Adam Andinnian was altered. The once fine black 
hair, which it had then pleased him to wear long was now 
short, scanty, and turned to grey; his once fine fresh colour 
had given place to pallor, and he was growing a beard that 
looked grey and stubbly. Decidedly old-looking now, as com- 
pared with the past, was Adam Andinnian. He wore even- 
ing dress. Mrs. Grey — as she was called, though she was in 
reality Lady Andinnian — wore a summer dress of clear white 
muslin, through which might be seen her white neck and arms. 
It was the pleasure of her husband. Sir Adam, that in' the 
evening, when he only dared to come out of his shell, they 
should keep up, in attire at least, some semblance of the state 
that ought to have been theirs. 


*^I can tell you, Karl, that I don't approve of it," Sir Adam 
was saying, with all his old haughty bearing and manner. 
" It's a regular scandal. What business has any one to set up 
such a thing on my land ? " 

" It's Truefit's land for the time being, you know, Adam. 
He gave his consent to it." 

*^ A parcel of foolish people — be-vanitied boys of self-called 
priests, and be-fooled girls, running and racing to the place 
four or five times a day under pretence of worship ! " continued 
Sir Adam, getting up to pace the room in his excitement, as 
though he would have broken through its narrow confines. " I 
won't permit it, Karl." 

He seemed to have grown somewhat shorter, and his walk 
had a limp in it. But he was the same hasty, fiery Adam 
Andinnian. A man cannot well change his nature. 

*'I do not see how it is to be prevented," was Karl's answer. 
" It will not do, in our position, to raise a stir over anything, 
or to make enemies. I dare say it will bring itself to an end 
some way or other." 

" The whole parish is making fun of it, I find. Ann hears 
it talked of when she goes on errands. And it is a downright 
insult on Mr. Sumnor. What a curious-minded person that 
Miss Blake must be ! Rose " — Sir Adam halted close to his 
wife — **if ever you put your foot inside this St. Jerome's I 
won't forgive you." 

She lifted her eyes to his from her work. " I am not likely 
to go to it, Adam." 

** The empty-headed creatures that girls are, nowadays ! 
If bull-baiting came up, they'd run off to it, just as readily as 
the good girls of former days would run from any approach of 
evil to take shelter under their mother's wing. Does your 
wife frequent St. Jerome's, Karl ? " 

"Oh no." 

'*She shows her sense." 

Karl Andinnian smiled. ^'You have not lost the old habit, 
Adam, of putting yourself into a heat for nothing. I came 
over this evening to have some serious talk with you. Do sit 

" Yes, do, Adam," added his wife, turning to him- *^ you will 


have the pain in your hip again. Do you wish me to go 
away ? " she added to Karl, as she prepared to gather up her 
working materials. 

*^ No, no, Rose : it's only the old story, I know — wanting to 
get rid of me," interposed Sir Adam, sitting down himself. 
" Stay where you are, wife. Now for it, Karl. Wait a moment, 
though," he added, ringing the bell. 

It was answered by the same staid, respectable-looking 
servant seen by Miss Blake ; the same confidential woman who 
had lived with Mrs. Andinnian at Weymouth — Ann Hopley. 

" Ann, I am as thirsty as a fish,'' said her master. " Bring 
up a bottle of soda-water and a dash of brandy." 

** Yes, sir," she replied — not daring now or at any other time 
to give him his title. 

He opened the soda-water himself when it was brought, put 
in the brandy, drank it, and sat down again. Karl Andinnian 
began to speak, feeling an innate certainty that his words would 
be wasted. 

But some explanation of the past is necessary, and it may as 
well be given here. 

When Karl Andinnian went down from London to Wey- 
mouth upon the news of his brother's attempted escape and 
death, he found his mother in a dreadful state of distress — as 
already related. This distress was not put on : indeed such 
distress it would not be possible to assume : for Mrs. Andinnian 
believed the public accounts — that Adam was dead. After she 
had despatched Karl to Foxwood to make arrangements for the 
interment, the truth was disclosed to her. Sir Adam had 
escaped with life, and was lying concealed in Weymouth ; but 
he had been terribly knocked about in the scufile, and in fact 
had been considered dead. By the careful stupidity of one of 
the warders, or else by his connivance, Mrs. Andinnian never 
entirely knew which, he was reported at the prison as being 
dead — and perhaps the prison thought itself well rid of so 
obstreperous an inmate. The warders had said one to another 
from the time he was first put there, that that Andinnian gentle- 
man had " mischief" in him. Further explanation may be 
given later on in the story : at present it is enough to say that 
Adam Andinnian escaped. 


When Mrs. Andinnian arrived at Foxwood with the body 
(supposed to be her son's, but in reahty that of the other poor 
convict, Cole), she then knew the truth. Adam was not dead. 
He was lying somewhere in great danger ; they would not, from 
motives of prudence, allow her to know where ; but, dead he 
was not. Not a hint did she disclose of this to Karl ; and he 
stood by her side over the grave, believing it was his brother 
that was placed in it ; believing her when she falsely stated she 
had seen the face of the dead. All her efforts were directed to 
keep Karl from finding out the truth. She called him Sir 
Karl ; she never gave him a hint that his succession to the title 
and estates was a fictitious one. Perhaps she did not dare 
speak of it, even to him. Karl went abroad, again met Lucy 
Cleeve, and became engaged to her. He caused the marriage 
settlements to be drawn up and signed, still never dreaming 
that he had no legal right to settle, that the revenues were not 
his. Only when he went down to Foxwood, a day or two 
before his marriage, did he become acquainted with the truth. 

That was the dread secret disclosed to him by his mother ; 
that, in her fear, she had made him take an oath to keep — 
" Adam is not dead." Just at the first moment Karl thought 
her intellects must be wandering : but as she proceeded in a 
few rapid words to tell of his escape, of his dangerous illness, 
of his lying, even then, hidden away from the terrors of the law, 
all the dreadful position of his ill-fated brother rushed over Karl 
as in one long agony. He saw in vivid colours the hazard 
Adam was running — and must ever run, until either death or 
recapture should overtake him ; he saw, as if portrayed in a 
mirror, the miserable future that lay before him, the lonely 
fugitive he must be. 

To Karl Andinnian's mind, no fate in this world could be so 
miserable. Even death on the scaffold would to himself have 
been preferable to this lifetime of awful dread. He had loved 
his brother with a keen love ; and he felt this almost as a death- 
blow. He could have died in his love and pity, if by that 
means his brother might be saved. Mingling with this regret 
had come the thought of his own changed position, and that he 
ought not to marry. 

This he said. But Mrs. Andinnian pointed out to him that 


his position would not be so very materially altered. Such was 
her conviction. That she herself, by connivance with one of 
the warders, had mainly contributed to the step Adam had 
taken, that she had been the first to put it into his head, and 
set him on to attempt it, she was all too remorselessly conscious 
of. Now that he had escaped, and was entered in the prison 
rolls as dead, and lay hidden away in some hole or corner, not 
daring to come out of it, or to let into it the light of day, she 
saw what she had done. Not even to her might his hiding- 
place be disclosed. She saw that his future life must be, at the 
very best, that of a nameless exile — if, by good fortune, he 
could make his escape from his own land. If? His person 
was rather a remarkable one, and well known to his enemies 
the police force. Not one, perhaps, but had his photograph. 
A fugitive in some barren desert unfrequented by man, where 
he must drag on a solitary life of expatriation ! Very little of 
his income would be needed for this. 

" You will have to occupy Foxwood as its master ; you must 
be Sir Karl to the world, as you are now," spoke Mrs. Andin- 
nian ; ^^ and it is your children who will inherit after you. 
There is no reason whatever for breaking off your marriage, or 
for altering any of the arrangements. You will have to pay a 
certain sum yearly to Adam out of the estate. He will not 
need it long, poor fellow ; a man's life, banned to the extent his 
will be, soon eats itself away." 

Hemmed in by perplexities of all kinds, KarPs interview 
with his mother ended, and he went forth with his care and 
trouble. His own trouble would have been enough, but it was 
as nothing to that felt for his brother. He dared not tell the 
truth to Colonel Cleeve or to Lucy, or impart the slightest hint 
that his brother was living ; he almost as little dared, for Lucy's 
sake, to break oiBf the marriage. And so it took place. 

After that, he heard no more until he was again at Foxwood, 
summoned thither by his mother's illness. Mrs. Andinnian 
had fretted herself ill. Night and day, night and day was the 
fear of her son's discovery ever before her mind ; she would see 
the recapture in her dreams : remorse wore her out, and fever 
supervened. She would have given all she possessed in the 
world could he be safely back at Portland Island without 


,having attempted to leave it. Karl, on his arrival, found her 
in this sad state ; and it was then she disclosed to him a further 
complication in the case, which she had but recently learnt 
herself. Sir Adam Andinnian was married. 

It may be remembered that he was absent for a few days 
from his home in Northamptonshire, returning to it only on the 
eve of the day that news came of Sir Joseph's death ; the fatal 
day when he killed Martin Scott. He had left home for the 
purpose of marrying Rose Turner, who was staying in Birming- 
ham, a measure which had previously been planned between 
them. But for his mother's prejudices — as he called them — he 
would have married the young lady openly ; but he knew she 
would never consent, and he did not care deliberately to set 
her at naught. "We will be married in private. Rose," he 
decided, " and I will feel my way afterwards to disclose it to my 
mother." And Miss Rose Turner cared for him too much to 
make any objection. 

Alas, the time never came for him to disclose it. On the 
very day after his return home, the young lady returning also 
to hers and her unsuspicious friends, he was thrown into prison 
on the charge of murder. It was not a time to speak ; he 
wished to spare comment and annoyance to her ; and she gave 
evidence at the trial — which she could not have done had she 
been his acknowledged wife. 

All this had been disclosed to Mrs. Andinnian the day after 
Karl left to celebrate his marriage. The stranger, Mr. Smith, 
spoken of by Hewitt as presenting himself again that day at 
Foxwood, and demanding an inverview with its mistress, told 
her of it then. It was another bitter blov/ for Mrs. Andinnian, 
and the distress of mind it induced no doubt helped to bring 
on the fever. This, in her turn, she disclosed to Karl later 
from her sick-bed ; and for him it made the complication ten 
times worse. Had he know^ his brother had a wife, nothing 
would have induced him to marry Lucy. Mrs. Andinnian told 
him more ; that Adam had escaped safely to London, where he 
then lay hidden, and where his wife had joined him ; and that 
they were coming to inhabit The Maze at Foxwood. The last 
bit of news nearly struck Karl dumb with consternation. 

" Is Adam mad ? " he asked. 


" No, very sane," replied Mrs. Andinnian. '^ He wants to be 
at least on his own grounds : and we all think — he and I and — 
no matter — that he may be safer here than anywhere. Even 
were there a suspicion abroad that he is alive — which there is 
not, and I trust never will be — his own place is the very last 
place that people would look into for him. Besides, precautions 
will be used — and The Maze is favourable to concealment." 

" It will be utter madness," spoke Karl. ** It will be putting 
himself into the Hon's mouth." 

*^ It will be nothing of the sort — or Mr. Smith would not 
approve of it," retorted Mrs. Andinnian. " I must see my son, 
Karl ; and how else am I to see him ? I may not go to him 
where he is : it might bring suspicion on him : but I can go 
over to The Maze." 

*^ Who is Mr. Smith ? — and what has he to do with Adam? — 
and how comes he to be in the secret ? " reiterated Karl. 

But to this he could obtain no answer. Whether Mrs. 
Andinnian knew, or whether she did not know, she would not 
say. The one fact that Mr. Smith held the dangerous secret 
and must be conciliated, was quite enough, she said, for Karl. 
Mr. Smith had Adam's safety and interest at heart, she went on 
to state ; he wished to be near The Maze to watch over him ; 
and she had given him the pretty cottage opposite The Maze 
gates to live in, calling him Sir KarFs agent, and appointing 
him to collect a few rents, so as to give a colouring of truth to 
the neighbourhood. In vain Karl remonstrated. It was use- 
less. The ground seemed shpping from under all their feet, 
but he could do nothing. 

After all, poor Mrs. Andinnian did not live to see her most 
beloved son. Anxiety, torment, restlessness, proved too much 
for her, and brought on the crisis sooner than was expected. 
On the very day after she died, the tenants came to The Maze 
— at least, all the tenants who would be seen openly, or be 
suspected of inhabiting it. They arrived by the last evening 
train ; Mrs. Grey and her attendants, the Hopleys ; and took 
two flies, which were waiting in readiness, on to The Maze ; the 
lady occupying one, Hopley and his wife the other. How 
Adam Andinnian reached the place, it is not yet convenient to 


In the course of the next evening, Karl Andinnian went over 
to The Maze and saw his brother. Adam was much altered. 
In the fever, which had supervened on his injuries received at 
the escape, he had lost his hair and become pale and thin* 
But his spirits were undaunted. He should soon " pick up " 
now he was in the free, open country air and on his own 
grounds, he said. As to danger, he seemed not to see it^ and 
declared there was less risk of discovery there than anywhere 
else. Karl could play the grand man and the baronet for him 
at Foxwood — but he meant, for all that, to have a voice in the 
ruling of his own estate. Poor Karl Andinnian, on the con- 
trary, saw the very greatest danger in the position of affairs. 
He would have preferred to shut up Foxwood, leaving only 
Hewitt to take care of it, that no chance of discovery should 
arise from either servants or other inhabitants there. But Sir 
Adam ruled it otherwise ; saying he would not have the Court left 
to stagnate. Hewitt was in the secret. It might have been 
neither expedient nor practicable to keep it from him : but the 
question decided itself. One evening just before Mrs. Andin- 
nian's death, when Hewitt had gone to her sick-room on some 
errand at the dusk hour, she mistook him for Karl ; and spoke 
words which betrayed all. Karl was glad of it. It seemed a 
protection to Adam, rather than not, that his tried old servant 
should be cognizant of the truth. So Karl went abroad again 
with his wife, and stayed until his keeping aloof from Foxwood 
began to excite comment in his wife's family ; when he deemed 
it more expedient to return to it. 

And now does the reader perceive all the difficulties sur- 
rounding Karl Andinnian ? There he was, in a false position : 
assuming to be a baronet and a wealthy man, and the owner of 
Foxwood : and obliged to assume this. A hint to the contrary, 
a word that he was not in his right place, might have set 
suspicion afloat — and Heaven alone knew wTiat would then be 
the ending. For Adam^s sake he must be wary and cunning ; 
he must play, so to say, the knave's part and deceive the world. 
But the dread of his brother's discovery lay upon him night and 
day, with a very-present, awful dread : it was as a brand eating 
into his heart. 

And again — you, my reader, can now understand the compli- 

Within the Maze. 12 


cation between Karl and his wife. He believed she had dis- 
covered the fact that Adam was alive and concealed at The 
Maze ; sJie^ relying on Miss Blake's information, put down The 
Maze mystery to something of a very different nature. How 
could he suppose she meant anything but the dangerous truth ? 
How could she imagine that the secret was any other than that 
Miss Blake had so clearly and convincingly disclosed to her? 
In Lucy's still almost maidenly sensitiveness, she could not 
bring her lips to allude openly to the nature of her charge : and 
there was no necessity for doing so ; for she assumed that Karl 
knew it even better than she did. In his reluctance to pro- 
nounce his brother's name, or to hint at the secret, lest even 
the very air should be treacherous and carry it abroad, he was 
perhaps less open than he might have been. When he offered 
to relate to her the whole story, she refused to listen : and so 
closed up the explanation that would have set the cruel doubt 
right and her heart at rest. 

Sitting there with Adam to-night, in that closely curtained 
room, Karl entered upon the matter he had come to urge — that 
his brother should leave The Maze for some safer place. It 
was, as Sir Adam expressed it, but the old story — for Karl had 
never ceased to urge it from the first — and Adam wholly 
refused to listen. There was no risk, he said, no fear of 
discovery, and he should not go away from his own land. 
Either from this little particular spot which was individually his, 
or from the land of his birth. It was waste of words in Karl to 
speak further. Adam had always been of the most obstinate 
possible temperament. But the (supposed) discovery of his 
wife had frightened Karl more than ever. He did not mention 
it to them, since he was not able to say how Lucy had made it. 

*^ As sure as you are living, Adam, you will some day find 
the place entered by the officers of justice 1 " he exclaimed in 

**Let them enter," recklessly answered Sir Adam. *^They 
won't find me." 

^' Oh, Adam, you don't know. They are lynx-eyed and 
crafty men." 

** No doubt they are. I am safe, Karl." 

Karl had been there longer than usual, and he rose to say 


good night. Mrs. Grey — for convenience' sake we must con- 
tinue to call her by that name, and call Lucy Lady Andinnian — 
folded up her work and went downstairs with him. She was 
changed too ; but for the better. The very pretty, blooming- 
faced Rose Turner had come in for her share of the world's 
bitter trouble, and it had spiritualized her. The once round 
face was oval now, the lovely features were refined, the damask 
cheeks were a shade more dehcate, the soft blue eyes had a sad 
light in them. Miss Blake's words were not misapplied to her 
— ^^ beautiful as an angel." 

*^ Karl," she whispered, " the dread of discovery is wearing 
me out. If we could only get away from England ! " 

*^ I am sure it will wear me out," was Karl's answer. 

*' Adam is afraid of Mr. Smith ; I am sure he is. He thinks 
Smith would stop his going. Karl, I fully believe, as truly as I 
ever believed any great truth in my life, that Smith is keeping 
us here and will not let us go. Mr. Smith may appear to be a 
friend outwardly, but I fear he is really an enemy. Oh dear ! 
it is altogether a dreadful situation." 

Karl went on home, his brain active, his heart sinking. The 
manner in which his wife had taken up the matter, distressed 
him greatly. He supposed she was resenting it chiefly on the 
score of her father and mother. The colonel had told him 
that they would rather have followed Lucy to the grave than 
see her his wife had Sir Adam lived. 

" I wonder how she discovered it ? " ran his thoughts — but 
in truth the fact did not excite so much speculation in his 
mind, because he was hourly living in the apprehension that 
people must suspect it. When we hold a dangerous secret, 
this is sure to be the case. "Perhaps Hewitt dropped an 
incautious word," he went on musing, *^and Lucy caught it 
up, and guessed the rest. Or— perhaps I dropped one in my 

Crossing the lawn of the Court, he entered by the little 
smoking-room, his hand pressed upon his aching brow. No 
wonder that people found fault with the looks of Sir Karl 
Andinnian ! He was wearing to a skeleton. Just as his 
mother, when she was dying, used to see the recapture of 
Adam in her dreams, so did Karl see it in his. Night after 


night would he wake up from one of these dreadful visions. 
Adam, retaken, held fast by a heap of scowling, threatening 
warders, and a frightful scaffold conspicuous in the distance. 
He would start up in bed in horror, believing it all real, his heart 
beating ; and once or twice he knew that he had cried out 

*^ Yes, yes, that's how it must have been," he said, the mystery 
becoming as apparently clear to his eyes as the light of day. 
*' Hewitt is too cautious and true. I have betrayed it in my 
sleep. Oh, my brother ! May Heaven help and save him ! " 



FoxwooD Court was alive with gaiety. At least, what stood 
for gaiety in that internally sad and sober house. Colonel and 
Mrs. Cleeve had come for a fortnight's stay. Visits were being 
exchanged with the neighbours ; dinner-parties reigned. It 
was not possible for Sir Karl and Lady Andinnian to accept 
hospitality and not return it ; and — at any rate during the 
sojourn of the colonel and his wife — Sir Karl dared not shut 
themselves up as hermits lest comment should be excited. So 
the Court held its receptions, and went out to other people's : 
and Sir Karl and Lady Andinnian dressed, and talked, and 
comported themselves just as though there was no shadow 
between them. 

Lady Andinnian was growing graver day by day ; her very 
heart seemed to be withering. That Sir Karl paid his secret 
visits to The Maze two or three nights a week, she knew only 
too well. One of the most innocent and naturally unsuspicious 
persons in the world was she : but, now that her eyes had been 
opened, she saw all clearly. Without watching and tracking 
the movements of her husband as Miss Blake had tracked 
them — in her guileless honour she could never have done that 
— Lady Andinnian was only too fully awake now to the nightly 
strolls of her husband ; and instinct told her for what purpose 
they were taken. 


Life for her at this present time seemed very hard to bear. 
The task she had imposed upon herself— to endure in patience 
and silence — seemed almost an impracticable one. The daily- 
cross that she had apportioned herself to take up, felt too heavy 
for mortal frame to carry. Humiliation, jealousy, love, waged 
war with each other within her, and rendered her very wretched. 
It needed all the good and gentle and patient principles instilled 
into her from early childhood, it needed all the strength she 
was ever praying for, to hold on perseveringly in her bitter path, 
and make no sign. At times she thought that the silence to 
which she was condemned must eat away her heart; but a 
chance occurrence or two showed her that silence was not the 
worst phase of the trouble she might have to bear. 

On the day after Mrs. Cleeve's arrival, she was upstairs in 
her daughter's chamber. Miss Blake was also there. Lucy 
had come in, hot and tired, from an afternoon walk to Margaret 
Sumnor's, and Aglae had been summoned to help her to change 
her silk dress for an unpretending muslin. 

'^ I did not know it was so hot before I went out, or I would 
not have put on the silk," observed Lucy. " Sitting so quietly 
with you all the morning, mamma, in that cool drawing-room, 
talking of old times, I forgot the heat." 

Mrs. Cleeve made no particular reply. She was looking 
about her ; taking silent notice. The doors of communication 
to the further chamber stood open, as was usual during the 
day : Lucy took care of that, to keep down in the house sus- 
picion of any estrangement between herself and her husband. 

"And you have made this your sleeping-room, Lucy, my 
dear ? " observed Mrs. Cleeve. 

**Yes, mamma. 

" And that further one is Sir Karl's. Well, I'm sure you are 
getting quite a fashionable couple — having separate rooms. I 
and your papa never had such a thing in our lives, Lucy." 

Lucy Andinnian grew crimson. She murmured, in reference 
to the remarks, some words about the nights being so very hot, 
and that she had felt a sort of fever upon her. The very con- 
sciousness of having the truth to conceal caused her to be more 
urgent in putting forth some plea of excuse. Aglae, whose 
pational prejudice had been particularly gratified at the p-ltera^ 


tion, and who had lived too long in Mrs. Cleeve's service, to 
keep in whatever opinion might occur to her, hastened to speak. 

" But, and is it not the most sensible arrangement, madame, 
that my lady and Sir Karl could have made, when the summer 
is like an Afric summer for hotness ? Mademoiselle here 
knows that.'' 

^' Don't appeal to me, A.glae," cried Miss Blake, in a frozen 

"Yes, yes, Aglae j I say the fashion is coming up in Eng- 
land ; and perhaps it induces to comfort, " said Mrs. Cleeve. 

*^ But certainly. And, as madame sees," — pointing through 
the little sitting-room to the further chamber — ''it is but like 
the same chamber. When Sir Karl is in that, and my lady in 
this, they can look straight at one another." 

"Aglae see to these shoulder-knots," sharply interposed Lady 
Andinnian. " You have not put them on evenly." 

"And talk to each other, if they please,'^ persisted Aglae, 
ignoring the ribbons to uphold her opinion. " Madame ought 
to see that the arrangement is good." 

" At any rate, Lucy, I think you should have kept to the 
larger room yourself, and Karl have taken the smaller," said 
Mrs. Cleeve. 

"The very remark I made to my lady,'^ cried Agla6, turning 
at length to regard the ribbons with a critical eye. "But my 
lady chose, herself, this. It is commodious ; I say nothing to 
the contrary : but it is not as large as the other." 

Oh, how Lucy wished they would be silent. Her poor 
flushed face knew not where to hide itself; her head and heart 
were aching with all sorts of perplexity. Taking up the eau- 
de-Cologne flask, she saturated her handkerchief and passed it 
over her brow. 

" Has my lady got ache to her head? " 

" Yes. A httle. Alter these ribbons, Aglae, and let me go." 

" It is because of this marvellous heat," commented Aglae. 
" Paris this summer would not be bearable." 

Aglae was partly right ; for it was an unusually hot summer. 
The intense heat began with Easter, and lasted late into 
autumn. In one sense, it was favourable to Lucy, for it upheld 
her excuse in regard to the sleeping arrangements. 


Miss Blake had stood all the while with in-drawn lips. It 
was a habit of hers to show it in her lips when displeased. 
Seeing the doors always open in the daytime, no suspicion of 
the truth crossed her. She believed that what she had disclosed 
to Lucy was no more to her than the idle wind, once Sir Karl 
had made good his own false cause. 

A question was running through Miss Blake's mind now — 
had been in it more or less since Mrs. Cleeve came : should 
she, or should she not, tell that lady what she knew ? She 
had deliberated upon it ; she had set herself to argue the point, 
for and against : and yet, down deep in her heart from the first 
had lain the innate conviction that she should tell. In the 
interests of religion and morality, she told herself that she ought 
not to keep silence ; for the suppression of iniquity and deceit, 
she was bound to speak. Had Lucy only taken up the matter 
rightly, there would have been no necessity for her to have 
again interfered: neither should she have done it But Lucy 
had set her communication at naught : and therefore, in Miss 
Blake's judgment, the obligation was laid upon her. Why — 
how could she, who was only second to the Reverend Guy 
Cattacomb in the management and worship at St. Jerome's, and 
might have been called his lay curate ; who prostrated herself 
there in prayer ever so many times a day, to the edification and 
example of Foxwood — how could she dare to hold cognizance 
of a mine of evil, and not strive to put an end to it and bring 
it home to its actors? Every time she went to that holy 
shrine, St. Jerome's, every time she came back with its sacred 
dust, as may be said, hallowing her shoes, she had to pass those 
iniquitous gates, and was forced into the undesirable thoughts 
connected with them ! 

If Miss Blake had wavered before, she fully made her mind 
up now ; now, as she stood there in the chamber, the conversa- 
tion dying away on her ears. Aglae was attending to the 
ribbons ; Lucy was passive under the maid's hands ; and Mrs. 
Cleeve had wandered into the little intermediate sitting-room. 
No longer a dressing-room ; Lucy had given it up as such when 
she changed her chamber. She had some books and work and 
her desk there now, and sat there whenever she could. Miss 
Blake stood on, gazing from the window and perfecting her 


resolution. She thought she was only acting in the strict line 
of wholesome duty, just as disinterestedly as the Archbishop 
of Canterbury might have done ; and she would have been 
very much shocked had anything told her she was only actuated 
by a desire of taking vengeance on Karl Andinnian. She 
wanted to bring home a little confusion to him ; she hoped to 
see the young lady at The Maze turned out of the village amidst 
an escorting flourish of ironical drums and shrieking fifes, 
leaving Foxwood Court to its peace. But Miss Blake was in 
no hurry to speak : she must watch her opportunity. 

They were engaged to dine on the following day at a 
distance, four or five miles off; a ball was to follow. When 
the time came, Lady Andinnian, radiant in her white silk 
bridal dress, entered the reception-room with her good-looking 
husband. Who could have dreamt that they were living on ill 
terms, seeing them now ? In public, they were both cautiously 
courteous to each other, observing every little obligation of 
society : and, in truth, Karl at all times, at home and out, was 
in manner affectionate to his wife. 

Two carriages had conveyed them : and, in going, Lucy had 
occupied one with her father; Karl, Mrs. Cleeve, and Miss 
Blake the other. Lucy had intended to return in the same 
order, but found she could not. Colonel Cleeve, unconscious 
of doing wrong, entered the carriage with his wife and Miss 
Blake : Lucy and her husband had to sit together. The summer 
night was giving place to dawn. 

" I fear you are tired, Lucy," he kindly said, as they drove 

*^ Yes, very. I wish I was at home." 

She drew her elegant white cloak about her with its silken 
tassels, gathered herself into the corner of the carriage, and 
shut her eyes, seemingly intending to go to sleep. Sleep ! 
her heart was beating too wildly for that. But she kept them 
resolutely closed, making no sign ; and never another word 
was spoken all the way. Karl helped her out : the others had 
already arrived. 

** Good night," she whispered to him, preparing to run up' 

^' Good night, Lucy," 


But, in spite of Lady Andinnian's efforts to make the best of 
things and show no sign, a mother's eye could not be deceived ; 
and before Mrs. Cleeve had been many days in the house, she 
was struck with the underlying sadness that seemed to pervade 
Lucy. Her cheerfulness appeared to be often forced; this 
hidden sadness was real. Unsuspecting Mrs. Cleeve could 
come to only one conclusion — her daughter's health must be 

" Since when have you not felt well, Lucy ? " she asked her 
confidentially one day, when they were alone in Lucy's 
little sitting-room. 

Lucy, buried in a reverie, woke up with a start at the 
question. *'I am very well, mamma. Why should you think I 
am not?'' 

" Your spirits are unequal, Lucy, and you certainly do not 
look well ; neither do you eat as you ought. My dear, I think 
— I hope there must be a cause for it." 

" What cause ? " returned Lucy, not taking her meaning. 

" We should be so pleased to welcome a little heir, my dear. 
Is it so ? " 

Lucy— she had just dressed for dinner, and dismissed 
Aglae — coloured painfully. Mrs. Cleeve smiled. 

*' No, mamma, I think there is no cause of that kind," she 
answered, in low, nervous tones. iVnd only herself knew the 
bitter pang that pierced her, as she remembered how certain it 
was that there could be no such cause for the future. 

But Mrs. Cleeve held to her own private opinion. " The 
child is shy in these early days, even with me," she thought. 
''I will say no more." 

One morning during this time, Karl was sitting alone in his 
room, when Hewitt came to him to say Smith the agent was 
asking to see him. Karl did not like Smith the agent : he 
doubted, dreaded, and did not comprehend him. 

^^ Will you see him, sir?" asked Hewitt, in a low tone, per- 
ceiving the lines on his master's brow. 

^^ I suppose I must see him, Hewitt," was the reply — and 
the confidential servant well understood the force of the 
obligation. '* Show him in." 

*' Beg pardon for disturbing you so early, Sir Karl," said the 


agent, as Hewitt brought him in and placed a chair. " There's 
one of your small tenants dropping into a mess, I fancy. He 
has the brokers in for taxes, or something of that kind. I 
thought I'd better let you know at once." 

Hewitt shut the door, and Karl pushed away the old letters 
he had been sorting. Sir Joseph's papers and eifects had 
never been examined yet; but Karl was settling to the work 
now. That Mr. Smith had spoken in an unusually loud and 
careless tone, he noticed : and therefore judged that this was 
only an ostensible plea for calling, given lest any ears should 
be listening. 

*' Which of my tenants is it, Mr. Smith ? " he quietly asked. 

Mr. Smith looked round to be sure that the door was closed, 
and then asked Sir Karl if he would mind having the window 
shut ; he felt a slight draught. And he closed the glass-doors 
himself with his one hand, before Karl could assent to the 
proposal, or rise to do it himself. 

" It is Seaford the miller,'' he answered. ^^ And '' — dropping 
his voice to his lowest and most cautious tones — ^^ it is a fact 
that he has the brokers in for some arrears of Queen's taxes. 
But the man has satisfied me that it is only a temporary em- 
barrassment ; and I think, Sir Karl, your rent is in no danger. 
Still it was right that you should know of it ; and it has served, 
just in the nick of time, to account for my object in coming." 

*'What is the real object?" inquired Karl, in a voice as 
cautious as the other's. 

Mr. Smith took a newspaper out of the pocket of his light 
summer coat ; took his disabled hand from the sling to help in 
unfolding it, and then pointed to a small paragraph. It ran as 
follows : — 

" Curious rumours are afloat connected with arecorded attempt 
at escape from Portland Island, in which the unfortunate 
malefactor met his death. A mysterious whisper has arisen, 
we know not how or whence, that the death was only a fiction, 
and that the man is at large." 

*'What paper is it?" cried Karl, trying to force some colour 
into his white lips. 


" Only one in which all kinds of stories are got up," rejoined 
Mr. Smith, showing the title of a sensational weekly paper. 
"The paragraph may have resulted from nothing but the 
imagination of some penny-a-liner, Sir Karl, at fault for real 

" I don't Hke it," observed Karl, after a pause. " Assume that 
it may be as you suggest, and nothing more, this very announce- 
ment may be the means of drawing people's thoughts to it." 

" Not it," spoke Mr. Smith. " And if it does ? — no one will 
think it points to Sir Adam Andinnian. Another prisoner has 
been killed since then, in trying to escape." 

" How do you know that ? " 

" I do know it," replied Mr. Smith, emphatically. But he 
advanced no further proof. "It was a curious thing, my 
getting this paper," he continued. " Yesterday I was over at 
Basham, mistook the time of the return train, and found when 
I reached the station that I had to wait three-quarters of an 
hour. The only newspapers on the stand were these weekly 
ones; I bought this to while away the time, and saw the 

" These events, looked upon as chances and errors, are in 
reality ordained," spoke Karl, dreamily. " What can be done, 
Mr. Smith?" 

" Nothing j nothing, Sir Karl. There's nothing to be done. 
He is safe enough where he is — even if the rumour were to 
be looked into by the authorities of the law. Rely upon it, The 
Maze will never be suspected." 

" I wish to Heaven he had never come to The Maze ! " was 
Karl Andinnian's pained rejoinder. 

" It might be better on the whole that he had not," acknow- 
ledged Mr. Smith. " The plan originated with himself and 
with the late Mrs. Andinnian — and they carried it out between 

"I wish," said Karl, speaking upon sudden impulse, "that 
you would allow me to know how you became connected with 
this affair of my unfortunate brother — and what you still have 
to do with it." 

" How I became connected with it does not signify now," 
was the short and ready answer. "As to what I have to do 


with it still, you know as well as I. I simply watch over him — 
or rather the place that contains him — and if danger should 
arise I shall be at hand to, I hope, give him warning, and to 
protect him from it.'' 

'^ He ought to be got away from The Maze," persisted Karl. 

" He would never get away in safety. Especially if there's 
anything in this" — placing his hand on the newspaper paragraph. 
*' With my consent, he will never try to get away." 

Karl did not answer ; but he thought the more. That this man 
was the real impediment to his brother's escape ; that he was in 
fact keeping him where he was, he believed with his whole heart. 
Once Sir Adam could be safe away from the kingdom, Mr. 
Smith no doubt foresaw that he might no longer enjoy Clematis 
Cottage, or the handsome sum which he received quarterly. 
A sum that Mrs. Andinnian had commenced to pay, and Karl 
did not dare to discontinue. The words were only a confirma- 
tion of his opinion. Mr. Smith was Adam's enemy, not his 
friend ; he was keeping him there for his own self-interest : and 
Karl feared that if Adam attempted to get away in spite of 
him, he might in revenge delivei; him up to justice. In dangers 
of this secret description, fear has no Hmit. 

*' He could not be as safe anywhere in England as here," 
concluded Mr. Smith, as if he divined Karl's thoughts. " The 
police would suspect every hole and corner of the country, 
every town, little and large, before they would suspect his own 
home. As to saiUng away for another land, the danger of his 
recognition would be too great both on the voyage and on 
embarking for it, for him to dare it. He would be discovered 
as sure as trees grow apples." 

*' Will it be better to tell him of this ?'* cried Karl, alluding 
to the newspaper. 

" I think not. Just as you please, though, Sir Karl. Rely 
upon it, it is only what I suggest — an emanation from some 
penny-a-liner's inventive brain." 

" The paper had better be burnt," suggested Karl. 

" The very instant I get home," said Mr. Smith, putting the 
paper in his pocket and taking his hat from the table. " I wish 
I could burn the whole impression — already gone forth to the 
world, I will go out this way, Sir Karl, if you will allow me." 


Opening the glass-doors again, he stepped across the terrace 
to the lawn, talking still, as though continuing the conversation. 
Other windows stood open, and the agent was cautious. 

" I will see Seaford in the course of the day. You may trust 
to me not to allow any of them to get backward with their rents. 
Good morning, Sir Karl." 

The agent, however, did not turn into his house. Deep in 
thought, he strolled on, up the road, his free hand in his light 
coat pocket, his head bent in meditation. He wished he could 
obtain some little light as to this mysterious announcement ; he 
fancied he might be able to do so. On he strolled, unthink- 
ingly, until he came to St. Jerome's, the entrance-door of which 
edifice was ajar. 

" Holding one of their services,'* thought the agent. " I'll 
have a look in, and see Cattacomb surrounded by his flock of 

Mr. Smith was disappointed : for the reverend gentleman was 
not there. It appeared to be the hour for cleaning the room, 
instead of one for holding service. Four or five young ladies, 
their gowns turned up round their waists and some old gloves on, 
were dusting, sweeping, and brushing with all their might and 
main ; Miss Blake presiding as high priestess of the ceremonies. 

'^ They wouldn't do such a thing in their own homes to save 
their lives," laughed the agent, coming quietly out again unseen. 
" Cattacomb must be in clover among 'em ! " 

He went home then, looked attentively once more at the 
alarming paragraph, and burnt the newspaper. After that, he 
paced his little garden, as if in a fit of restlessness, and then 
leaned over the gate, lost in reflection. The trees of The Maze 
were perfectly still in the hot summer air ; the road was dusty, 
and not a single passenger was to be seen on it. 

A few minutes, and footsteps broke upon his ear. They 
were Miss Blake's, bringing her home from St. Jerome's. She 
stopped to shake hands. 

"Well," said he, with a laugh, "all the scrubbing done? " 

" How do you know anything about the scrubbing ? " returned 
Miss Blake. 

^*I looked in just now, and saw you all at it, dusting and 
.brushing, and thought what an enviable young priest that 


Cattacomb must be. Now, my lad ! don't ride over us if you 
can help it.'' 

The very same butcher-boy, in the same blue frock, had 
come galloping up to The Maze gate, rung the bell, and was 
now prancing backwards across the road on his horse, which 
was restive. Something appeared to have startled the animal ; 
and it was to the boy the last remark had been addressed. 
Miss Blake stepped inside the garden-gate, held open for her — 
for the horse seemed to think the pathway his own ground as 
well as the highway. 

" He have been shoed this morning, and he's always in this 
dratted temper after it," spoke the boy, gratuitously. 

The woman-servant came out with her dish, received some 
meat and disappeared again, taking care to lock the gate after 
her. She had never left it unlocked since the unlucky day 
when Miss Blake had entered. Glancing over the road, she 
saw the lady and the agent watching her, and no doubt recog- 
nized the former. " Looks like a faithful servant, that," 
remarked Mr. Smith. 

*^ Faithful," echoed Miss Blake — ^^well, yes, she does. But to 
what a mistress ! Fidelity to such a person does her no credit.'' 

Mr. Smith turned as grave as a judge. " Hush ! " said he, 
impressively. " Unless one has sure ground to go upon, it is 
better not to assume evil." 

*' No ground was ever surer than this." 

*^ My dear young lady, you may be utterly mistaken." 

She Hked the style of address from him — my dear young lady : 
it flattered her vanity. But she would not give way. 

** I have seen what I have seen, Mr. Smith. Sir Karl Andin- 
nian would not be stealing in there at night, if it were proper for 
him to be going in the open day." 

"^ Never speak of it," cried Mr. Smith, his tone one of sharp 
command. ^^ What could you prove ? I ask, Miss Blake, what 
you could prove — if put to it ? " 

She did not answer. 

" Why, nothing, madam. Absolutely nothing. How could 

Miss Blake considered. *^ I think there's a good deal of 
negative proof," she said, at length. 


" Moonshine," cried Mr. Smith. " Negative proof in a case 
of this kind always is moonshine. Listen, my dear Miss Blake, 
for I am advising you now as a friend. Never breathe a word 
of this matter to living soul. You don't know what the conse- 
quences to yourself might be.'' 
\ *^ Consequences to myself ! " 

'^ To yourself, of course : there is no one else in question— 
at least in my mind. You might be sued for libel, and get 
sentenced to pay heavy damages and to a term of imprison- 
ment besides. For goodness' sake, be cautious ! Remember 
Jane Shore ! She had to stand in the pillory in a white sheet, 
in the face and eyes of a gaping multitude, a lighted taper in 
her hand." 

'^Jane Shore!" cried Miss Blake, who at the above sugges- 
tion had begun to turn almost as pale as she could turn. " Jane 

Shore ! But that was not for libel. It was for — for " 

J Miss Blake broke down. 

'^ Shoreditch is named after her, you know," put in Mr. 
Smith. *^ Poor thing ! she was very lovely : raven hair and 
violet-blue eyes, say the old chronicles. Keep your own 
counsel, young lady, implicitly — and be silent for your own 

Miss Blake said good morning, and walked away. The 
prospect suggested to her, as to the fine and imprisonment, 
looked anything but a pleasant one. She resolved henceforth 
to he silent ; to Mrs. Cleeve and to every one else : and, under 
the influence of this new and disagreeable suggestion, she 
wished to her heart she had never opened her lips to Lady 

" Meddlesome tabby cat," aspirated the gallant Mr. Smith, 
*^She might play up Old Beans with her tongue. Women are 
the very deuce for being ill-natured to one another." 




Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve had departed again, and the time 
went on. Fox wood Court was comparatively quiet. The 
opening visits on all sides had been paid and returned, and 
there was a lull in the dinner-parties. The weather continued 
most intensely hot ; and people were glad to be still. 
! Never had poor Lucy Andinnian felt the estrangement from 
her husband so cruelly as now. At first, the excitement of 
resentment had kept her up, and the sojourn of her father and 
mother, together with the almost daily gaiety, had served to 
take her out of herself. It was only at night during the lonely 
hours, when trouble prevented sleep, that she had felt its 
keenest sting. But now : now when she and Karl were alone, 
save for Miss Blake : when she sat in her lonely room hour 
after hour, and had leisure to realize her true position, Lucy 
gave way to all the abandonment of grief her trial brought to her. 
It was indeed a fiery trial : and when she looked back to it in 
after-days, she could never imagine how she had contrived to 
bear it. 

Love is an overruling tyrant : an all-powerful master. In 
the first torments of awakened jealousy, it is all very well to 
take refuge in revengeful anger, and snap our fingers meta- 
phorically at the beloved one. The reaction comes. Jealousy, 
alas, does not tend to extinguish love, but rather to increase it. 
Lucy Andinnian found it so to her cost. Her love for Karl 
had in no whit abated : and the very fact of knowing that he 
paid these stolen night visits to The Maze, whilst it tortured her 
jealousy, in no way diminished her love. She was growing 
pale and thin : she questioned whether she had done wisely 
in undertaking this most cruel task of bearing in silence and 
patience, hoping it might bring him back to his allegiance ; for 
she knew not whether she could endure to the end. 
'. .There were moments when in her desolation she almost 
wished she was reconciled to her husband on any terms, even 
to the extent of condoning the wrong and the evil. The severe 


reader must pardon her, for she was very desolate. The idea 
always left her at once, and she would arouse herself with a 
shiver. Perhaps, of all phases of the affair, the one that told 
most upon her, that she felt to be more humiliating than the 
rest, was the fact of its having been brought close to her home, 
to its very gates : and a thousand times she asked herself the 
ambiguous question — Why could not Sir Karl rid The Maze of 
its inmates, and convey them to a distance ? 

She might have schooled her heart to care less for Karl had 
they been separated : he at the North Pole, say : she at the 
South. But they were living under the same roof, and met 
hourly. They went to church together, and paid visits with 
each other, and sat at the same breakfast and dinner tables. 
For, their public intercourse was so conducted that no suspicion 
of the truth should get abroad, within doors or without. As to 
Karl, he was waiting, on his side, with what patience he might 
until his wife's mood should alter; in fact, he had no other 
alternative ; but he treated her with the most anxious kindness 
and consideration. That she had taken the matter up with 
unjustifiable harshness, he thought ; but he excused it, knowing 
himself to be the real culprit for having married her. And 
thus they went on ; Lucy's spirit wounded to the quick, and 
her anguished heart pining for the love that she believed was 
not hers. 

She was sitting one Saturday evening under the acacia tree, 
in the delicate muslin she had worn during the day, when Karl 
came down from his dressing-room ready for dinner, and crossed 
the lawn to her. He had been to Basham, and she had not 
seen him since the morning. 

" You are very pale, Lucy." 

" My head aches badly : and it was so pleasant to remain 
here in the cool that I did not go in to dress," she said in 
tones of apology. 

"And why should you?" returned Karl. "That is as 
pretty a dress as any you have. What has given you a head- 

" I — always have it now, more or less," had been on the tip 
of her tongue ; but she broke off in time. " The heat, I think. 
I got very hot to-day, walking to Margaret Sumnor's." 

Within the Maze. 13 


** It IS too hot for walking, Lucy. You should take the 

^^ I don't like the parade of the carriage when I go to 

" Would you like a little pony-chaise ? I would buy you 
one if you " 

'' No, thank you,'' she interrupted hastily, her tones cold. 
" I prefer to walk when I go about Foxwood. The hot 
weather will pass away some time." 

"You were saying the other day, Lucy, to some one who 
called, that you would like to read that new book on the 
Laplanders. I have been getting it for you." 

He had a white paper parcel in his hand, undid it, and gave 
her a handsomely bound volume. She felt the kindness, and 
her sad face flushed slightly. 

" Thank you ; thank you very much. It was good of you to 
think of me." 

" And I have been subscribing to the Basham library, Lucy, 
and brought home the first parcel of books. It may amuse 
you to read them." 

" Yes, I think it will. Thank you. Sir Karl." 

She had never called him " Karl " when they were alone, since 
the explosion. Now and then occasionally before people, she 
did so, especially before her father and mother. But he under- 
stood quite well that it was only done for appearance' sake. 

The dinner-hour was at hand, and they went in. Very 
much to the surprise of both, Mr. Cattacomb was in the 
drawing-room with Miss Blake. Lucy had neither heard nor 
seen him : but the acacia tree was out of range of the front- 

" I have been telling Mr. Cattacomb — he came to me in the 
heat, on business of St. Jerome's — that you will be charitable 
enough to give him some dinner," said Miss Blake, introducing 
Mr. Cattacomb to Sir Karl in due form — for it was the first 
time Karl had met that reverend man. Of course Karl could 
only return a civil answer ; but he had not been at all anxious 
for the acquaintanceship of Mr. Cattacomb, and was deter- 
mined not to treat him precisely as though he had been an 
invited guest. 


'* I think you may perhaps prefer to take in your friend Miss 
Blake/' he said, when Hewitt announced dinner. ^' We are 
not on ceremony now." 

And Sir Karl caught his wife's hand in his. " I was not 
going to leave you to htm, Lucy," he wliispered. 

So they went in to dinner arm-in-arm, this estranged man 
and wife, brushing past Hewitt and the tall new footman, who 
wore powdered hair. 

" It is just as though he cared for me ! " thought Lucy, 
glancing at her husband as he placed her in her seat at the 
head of the table. 

Mr. Cattacomb and Miss Blake, seated opposite each other, 
talked a great deal, Karl scarcely at all. When alone, the 
dinners at the Court were simply served, Karl carving. 

He was attentive to his impromptu guest, and sent him 
of the best : but he thought he had never in all his life been in 
company with so affected and vain a man as that belauded 
clergyman. Once, with the fish before him, Karl fell into a 
reverie. He woke up with a start, looking about him as a man 

"Some more fish, Lucy, my darling?" 

Lucy's plate had gone away long ago. They all saw that he 
had been, so to speak, unconscious of what he said. He 
rallied then ; and did not lose himself again. 

Dinner over, Mr. Cattacomb, making an apology, hurried 
away for some slight service at St. Jerome's, Miss Blake ac- 
companying him as a matter of course. Lucy disappeared : 
and Karl, thus abandoned, went to his smoking-room. Not 
to smoke j but to muse upon the acute angles of his position — 
as he was too much given to do. Karl Andinnian was as a 
man in a net. As things looked at present, there seemed to 
be no chance of freedom ; no hope of it, at present or in the 
future. And his ill-fated brother again ! The past night he, 
Karl, had dreamt one of those ugly dreams. He thought 
he saw Adam fleeing from his pursuers; a number of them, 
and they all looked like warders of Portland Prison. Panting, 
Adam rushed in, seized Karl, and begged him, as he valued 
salvation hereafter, to hide and save him. But the warders 
followed and surrounded them. Poor Karl woke up as usual in 


fright and agony. This dream had been recurring to his mind 
all day ; it was very vivid now in the silent hour after sunset. 

" I would give my life to place him in safety,'^ ran his thoughts. 
** Not much of a gift, either, for I verily believe this constant 
suspense will kill me. If he were only safe in some distant 
land ! He might begin Why, what is Lucy doing ? " 

Opposite this south window there was a charming view 
through the trees, of the grounds beyond. Karl had seen his 
wife going swiftly from one walk to another, and suddenly 
stoop — as he fancied. Looking still, he found she did not get 
up again. 

"She must have fallen," he exclaimed; and rushed out. 

He was with her in a moment. She was trying to get up 
after her fall, but her ankle felt intolerably painful. Karl was 
very tender : "he had her in his arms, and took her to a leafy 
arbour close by. There he put her to sit down, and held her 
to him for support. 

*^ I have twisted my ankle," she said. " It is nothing." 

But the tears of pain stood in her eyes. He soothed her 
as he would have soothed her in the bygone days; holding 
her in his firm protection, whispering terms of endearment. 
What with the ankle's sharp twinges, his loving words, and her 
chronic state of utter wretchedness, poor Lucy burst into tears, 
and sobbed them out upon his breast. 

" My darling ! The ankle is giving you pain." 

**The ankle's nothing," she said. "It will soon be well 
again." But she lay there still and sobbed pitiably. He 
waited in silence until she should grow calmer, his arm round 
her. A distant nightingale was singing its love-song. 

" Lucy," began Karl, then, " I would ask you — now that we 
seem to be for the moment alone with the world and each 
other — whether there is any sense in living in the way we do ? 
Is there any happiness for either of us ? I want you to forgive 
all, and be reconciled : I want you to see the matter in its 
proper light, apart from prejudice. The past is over, and 
cannot be recalled : but it has left no just reason in the sight 
of God or man for our living in this estrangement." 

Her head was hidden against him still. She did not lift her 
eyes as she whispered her answer. 


"Is there no reason for it now, Karl? Now, at the present 
time. None ? " 

** No. As I see it, no ; on my word of honour as a gentle- 
man. The idea you have taken up is an unsound and utterly 
mistaken one. You had grave cause to complain ; granted : 
for resentment ; I admit it all : but surely it was not enough to 
justify the rending asunder of man and wife. The past cannot 
be undone — Heaven knows I would undo it if I could. But 
there is no just cause for your visiting the future upon me in 
this way, and making us both pay so heavy a penalty. Won't 
you forgive and forget ? Won't you be my own dear wife again ? 
Oh, Lucy, I am full of trouble, and I want your sympathy to 
lighten it.'' 

Her whole heart yearned to him. He drew her face to his 
and kissed her lips with impassioned fervour. In the bliss and 
rest that the reconciliation brought to her spirit, Lucy momen- 
tarily forgot all else. What with one emotion and another — 
pain, anguish, grief and bliss, the latter uppermost — poor Lucy 
turned faint. The bitter past was effaced from her memory : 
the change seemed as a glimpse of Paradise. It all passed in a 
moment, or so, of time. 

" Oh, Karl, I should like to be your wife again ! " she con- 
fessed. " The estrangement we are living in is more cruel for 
me than for you : there is no confidence between us, no 
pleasant interchange of thought. Shall it be so ?" 

"Shall it!" repeated Karl. "Is there need to ask me, 

" It lies with you." 

" With me ! Why, how — how does it — lie with me ? You 
know, my darling " 

A slight ruffle, as if some one were brushing past the shrubs 
in the opposite path, caused Sir Karl to withdraw his arm from 
his wife. Miss Blake came up : a note in her hand. Sir Karl 
politely, in thought, wished Miss Blake at York. 

"As I was coming in. Sir Karl, I overtook a woman with 
this note, which she was bringing you. It was the servant at 
The Maze — or some one very like her." 

Miss Blake looked full at Sir Karl as she spoke, wishing no 
doubt that looks were daggers. She had added the little bit of 


information, as to the messenger, for Lucy's especial benefit. 
Karl thanked her coolly, and put the note, unopened, into his 
pocket. Lucy, shy, timid Lucy, was limping away. Miss 
Blake saw something was wrong and held out her arm. 

* ' What is the matter, Lucy ! You are in pain ! You have 
been crying ! '^ 

" I slipped and hurt my ankle, Theresa. It was foolish to 
cry, though. The pain is much less already. '' 

Miss Blake helped her indoors in lofty silence. Anything 
like the contempt she felt for the weakness of Lucy Andinnian, 
she perhaps had never felt for any one before in all her life. 
Not for the weakness of crying at a hurt : though that was more 
befitting a child than a woman : but for the reprehensible weak- 
ness she was guilty of in living on terms of affection with her 
husband. " Must even sit together in an arbour hand in hand, 
listening to the nightingales," groaned Miss Blake mentally, 
with uprising hair. *' And yet — she knows what I disclosed to 

: The note was from Mrs. Grey. Had Miss Blake herself pre- 
sided at its opening, she could not reasonably have found fault 
with it. Mrs. Grey presented her compliments to vSir Karl 
Andinnian, and would feel obliged by his calling to see her as 
soon as convenient, as she wished to speak with him on a little 
matter of business concerning the house. 

There was nothing more. But Karl knew, by the fact of her 
venturing on the extreme step of writing to the Court, that he 
was urgently wanted at The Maze. It was several days since 
he had been there : for he could not divest himself of the 
feeling that some one of his nightly visits, more unlucky than 
the rest, might bring on suspicion and betrayal. To his 
uneasy mind there was danger in every surrounding object. 
The very sound of the wind in the trees seemed to whisper it 
to him as he passed ; phantom shapes glanced out to his fancy 
from the hedges. 

■ He stayed a short while, pacing his garden, and then went 
indoors. It was growing dark. Miss Blake had her things 
off and was alone in the drawing-room. The tea waited on 
the table. 

'/ Where's Lucy ? " he asked. 


*' She went to her room to have her ankle seen to. I would 
have done anything for her, but she declined my services.'^ 

Karl knocked at his wife's little sitting-room door, and 
entered. She was leaning on the window-sill, and said her 
ankle felt much better after the warm water, and since Aglae 
had bound it up. Karl took her hand. 

^'We were interrupted, Lucy, when I was asking an im- 
portant question," he began — ''for indeed I think I must have 
misunderstood you. How does the putting an end to our 
estrangement lie with me ? " 

"It does lie with you, Karl," she answered, speaking feel- 
ingly and pleasantly, not in the tone of cold reserve she had of 
late maintained when they were alone. '^ The estrangement is 
miserable for me; you say it is for you; and the efforts we 
have to make, to keep up the farce before the household and 
the world, make it doubly miserable for both of us. We can- 
not undo our marriage : but to continue to live as we are now 
living is most unsatisfactory and deplorable." 

" But it is you who insisted on living so, Lucy— to my sur- 
prise and pain." 

"Could I do otherwise?" she rejoined. " It is a most un- 
happy business altogether : and at times I am tempted to wish 
that it had been always kept from me. As you say — and I am 
willing to believe you, and do believe you — the past is over : 
but you know how much of its consequences remain. It seems 
to me that I must give way a little : perhaps, having taken my 
vows as your wife, it may be what I ought to do ; a duty even 
in God's sight." 

" Do you recollect your words to me on the eve of our wed- 
ding-day, Lucy, when I was speaking of the possibility that 
a deeper blow might fall : one that would dishonour us both 
in the world's eyes, myself primarily, you through me, and 
cause you to repent our union? You should never repent, 
you said ; you took me for richer for poorer, for better or for 

" But I did not know the blow would be of this kind," mur- 
mured Lucy. " Still, I will do as you wish me — forget and 
forgive. At least, if I cannot literally forget, for that would 
not be possible, it shall be as though I did so, for I will never 


allude to it by word or deed. That will be my concession, 
Karl. You must make one on your side/' 

^* Willingly. What is it?'' 

" Clear The Maze immediately of its tenants." 

He gave a slight start, knitting his brow. Lucy saw the 
proposal was unpalatable to him. 

" Their being there is an insult to me, Karl," she softly said, 
as if beseeching the boon. " You must get them away." 

*^I cannot, Lucy," he answered, his face wrung with pain. 
*^ I wish I could ! Don't you understand that I have no control 
over this ? " 

*' I think I understand," she said, her manner growing cold. 
"You have said as much before. Why can you not? It 
seems to me, if things be as you intimate, that the matter would 
be easily accompUshed. You need only show firmness." 

He thought how little she understood. But he could not 
bear to enlarge upon it, and said nothing. 

" There are houses enough, and to spare, in the world, Karl." 

** Plenty of them." 

''Then why not let The Maze be left to itself? " 

" More things than one are against it, Lucy. There are 
wheels within wheels," he added, thinking of Smith, the mys- 
terious agent. " One great element against it is the risk — the 

^' Danger of exposure, do you mean ? " 

" Of discovery. Yes." 

Never had Karl Andinnian and his wife been so near coming 
to an enlightenment on the misunderstanding that lay between 
them and their peace. It passed off — just as many another 
good word passes off, unsaid, in hfe. 

"My hands are tied, Lucy. If wishing The Maze empty 
would effect it, it would be vacant to-morrow. I can do 

" I understand," she said bitterly, even as she had said once 
before, all the old resentful indignation rising up within her. 
" I understand. Sir Karl. There are complications, entangle- 
ments ; and you cannot free yourself from them." 

** Precisely so." 

"/^ the sin of the past?" she asked with flashing eyes/ and 


a rising colour ; her voice betraying her frame of mind. He 
gazed at her, unable to understand. 

" Why, of course it is past, Lucy. What can you mean ? '' 

" Oh, you know, you know. Never mind. We must go on 
again as we have been going on.'' 

'' No, Lucy." 

"Yes, Sir Karl. As long as those people remain at The 
Maze, a tacit insult to me, I will never be more to you than I 
am now." 

It was a strangely harsh decision; and one he could not 
account for. He asked for her reasons in detail, but she would 
not give any. All she said further was, that if he felt dis- 
satisfied, she could — and should — seek the protection of her 
father and declare the truth to him. 

So they parted again as they had parted before. Hemmed 
in on all sides, afraid to move an inch to the left or right, 
Karl could only submit ; he could do nothing. 

" I was charged by Miss Blake to tell you that tea is ready,*' 
he said, turning on his heel to quit the room. 

'*Ask her to send me a cup by Aglae, please. I shall stay 
here to rest my ankle." 

And as Karl closed the door upon her, poor Lucy burst into 
a flood of tears, and sobbed as though her heart would break. 
Underlying all else in her mind was a keen sense of insult, of 
slight, of humiliation : and she asked herself whether she ought 
to bear it. 

Pacing the gravel-path round the trees of The Maze after 
darkness had fallen — as much darkness as a summer night ever 
gives us — were Karl Andinnian and Mrs. Grey. She, expect- 
ing him, went to wait for him just within the gate : as she did 
the evening Miss Blake had the satisfaction of watching and 
seeing. It was a still, hot night, and Mrs. Grey proposed that 
they should walk round the outer circle once, before going in : 
for she had things to say to him. 

" Why have you kept away these last few days, Karl ? " she 
asked, taking the arm he ofifered her. " Adam has been so vexed 
and impatient over it. But I should not have ventured to write 
to you for only that — I hope you were not angry with me.'' 


He told her he was not angry. He told her why he had 
kept away — that an instmct warned him it might be imprudent 
to come in too often. It seemed to him, he added, that the 
very hedges had eyes to watch him. She shivered a little, as 
though some chill had struck her; and proceeded to relate 
what she had to say. 

By a somewhat singular coincidence, a copy of the same 
newspaper that contained the mysterious paragraph had been 
bought at the little newsvendor's in Foxwood by Ann Hopley, 
who was fond of reading the news when her day's work was 
over. She saw the paragraph, took alarm, and showed it to her 
master and mistress. 

^^It has nearly frightened me to death, Karl," said Mrs. 
Grey. *^ The paper was a week old when Ann bought it : and 
I am glad it was, or I should have been living upon thorns 
longer than I have been.'' 

He told her that he had seen it. And he did what he could 
to reassure her, saying it was probably but an unmeaning asser- 
tion, put in from dearth of news. 

"That is just what Mr. Smith says," she replied. "He 
thinks it is from the brain of some poor penny-a-liner." 

" Mr. Smith ! '^ exclaimed Karl. *^ How do you know ? '' 

" Adam would see him about it, and I sent for him. He, 
Smith, says there's nothing for it now but to stay here ; and 
Adam seems to be of the same opinion." 

"Were you present at their interview? " 

" No. I never am. The man is keeping us here for pur- 
poses of his own. I feel sure of it. He has been a good friend 
to us in many ways ; I don't know what we should have done 
without him ; but it is his fault that we are staying on here." 

" Undoubtedly it is." 

" Adam is just as careless and gay as ever in manner, but 
I think the announcement in the newspaper has made him 
secretly uneasy. He is not well to-night." 

" What is the matter with him ? " 

" It is some inward pain : he has complained of it more than 
once lately. And he has been angry and impatient of an 
evening because you did not come. It is so lonely for him, 
you know." 


'^' I do know it, Rose. Nothing brings me here at all but 

" It was he who at last made me write to you to-day. I was 
not sorry to do it, for I wanted to see you myself and to talk 
to you. I think I have discovered something that may be 
useful ; at least that we may turn to use. First of all — Do you 
remember that a year or two ago there was a public stir about 
one Philip Salter ? " 

"No. Who is Philip Salter ?'' 

** Philip Salter committed a great crime : forgery, I think : 
and he escaped from the hands of the police as they were 
bringing him to London by rail. I have a nearly perfect 
recollection of it," continued Mrs. Grey, " for my uncle and 
aunt took great interest in it, because they knew one of the 
people whom Salter had defrauded. He was never retaken. 
At least, I never heard of it." 

" How long ago was this ? " 

" More than two years ago. It was in spring-time, I think." 

Karl Andinnian threw his recollection into the past. The 
name, Philip Salter, certainly seemed to begin to strike on 
some remote chord of his memory; but he had completely 
forgotten its associations. 

" What of him. Rose ? " he asked. 

" This," she answered, her voice takmg even a lower tone : 
" I should not be surprised if this Mr. Smith is the escaped 
man, Philip Salter ! I think he may be." 

" This man. Smith, Philip Salter ! " exclaimed Karl. '' But 
what grounds have you for thinking so ? " 

" I will tell you. When Mr. Smith came over a day or two 
ago, it was in the evening, growing dusk. Adam saw him in 
the upstairs room. They stood at the window — perhaps for 
the sake of the light, and seemed to be looking over some 
memorandum paper. I was walking about outside, and saw 
them. All at once something fell down from the window. I 
ran to pick it up, and found it was a pocket-book lying open. 
Mr. Smith shouted out, * Don't touch it, Mrs. Grey; don't 
trouble yourself,' and came rushing down the stairs. But I 
had picked it up, Karl ; and I saw written inside it the name, 
Philip Salter. Without the least intention or thought of prving, 


I saw it : * Philip Salter.' Mr. Smith was up with me the next 
moment, and I gave him the pocket-book closed." ' 

^*His Christian name is certainly Philip," observed Karl, 
after a thoughtful pause. ^' I have seen his signature to receipts 
for rent — * Philip Smith.' This is a strange thing, Rose." 

" Yes — if it be true. While he is planted here, spying upon 
Adam, he may be hiding from justice himself, a criminal." 

Karl was in deep thought. " Was the name in the pocket- 
book on the fly-leaf, Rose — as though it were the owner's 
name ? " 

** I think so, but I cannot be sure. It was at the top of a 
leaf certainly. If we could but find it out — find that it is so, it 
might prove to be a way of release from him," she added. " I 
mean that some way or other of release might come of it. Oh, 
and think of the blessing of feeling free ! I am sure that, but 
for him, Adam would contrive to escape to a safer land." 

There was no time to say more. The night was drawing on, 
and Karl had to go in to his impatient brother. Impatient ! 
What should we have been in his place? Poor Adam An- 
dinnian ! In his banned and solitary days, what had he to 
look forward to but these occasional visits from Karl ? 

" I will think it over. Rose, and try and find something out," 
said Karl, as they went in. " Have you told Adam ? " 

^' No. He is so hot and impulsive, you know. I thought 
it best to speak to you first." 

" Quite right. Say nothing to him at present." 

In quitting The Maze that evening, Adam, in spite of all Karl 
could say or do, would walk with him to the gate, only laughing 
when Karl called it recklessness. There were moments when 
the same doubt crossed Karl's mind that had been once sug- 
gested to him by Mr. Plunkett — Was Adam always and alto- 
gether sane ? This moment was one of them. He absolutely 
stood at the gate, talking and laughing in an undertone, as 
Karl went through it. 

"Rubbish, Karlo, old fellow," said he to the last remon- 
strance. " It's a dark night, and not a soul within miles of us. 
Besides, who knows me here ? " 

Karl had locked the gate and was putting the key in his 
pocket, when a sound smote his ear and he turned to listen. 


The tramp, tramp, as of policemen walking with measured steps 
was heard, coming from the direction of the railway-station, 
and with it the hum of a besetting crowd. It brought into his 
mind with a rush and a whirl that fatal night some twelve 
months before, when he had heard the tramp of policemen on 
the other side the hedge — and their prisoner, though he knew 
it not, was his brother, Adam Andinnian. 

^^Adam, do you hear!" he cried hoarsely. *^ For the love 
of Heaven hide yourself." And Sir Adam disappeared within 
the maze. 

What with the past recollection, what with his brother's close 
presence, what with the approach of these police — as he 
imagined them to be — what with the apprehension ever lying 
upon his heart, Karl was seized with terror. Were they coming 
in search of Adam ? He thought so : and all the agony that 
he often went through in his dreams, he suffered now in waking 
reality. The hubbub of exposure ; the public disgrace ; the 
renewed life for him at Portland Island ; even perhaps — Karl's 
imagination was vivid just then — the scaffold in the distance as 
an ending ! These visions surging through his brain, Karl flew 
to the other side of the road — lest his being on the side of The 
Maze might bring suspicion on it — and then walked quietly to 
his own gates. There he stood, and turned to await the event, 
his heart beating, his pulses coursing wildly. 

With a relief that no tongue could express, Karl saw them 
pass The Maze and come onwards. Presently, in the imperfect 
light, he distinguished a sort of covered stretcher, borne by a 
policeman and other men, a small mob following. 
1 " Is anything amiss ? " he asked, taking a few steps into the 
road, and speaking in the quietest tones he could just then 

" It's poor Whittle, Sir Karl," replied the policeman — who 
knew him well. There were a few scattered cottages skirting 
the wood beyond the Court, and Karl recognized the name, 
Whittle, as that of a man who lived in one of them and worked 
at the railway-station. 

^as he ill?" asked Karl. 

" He is dead, Sir Karl. He was missed from his work in 
the middle of the afternoon and was not found till an hour agOo 


There he was, stretched out in the field, dead. We got Mr, 
Moore rounds and he thinks it must have been a sun-stroke." 

*^What a sad thing!" cried Karl, in his pitying accents. 
*' Does his wife know? " 

<< We've sent on to prepare her, poor woman ! There's four 
or five little children. Sir Karl, more's the pity ! " 

" Ay ; I know there are some. Tell her I will come in and 
see her in the morning." 

A murmur of approbation at the last words arose from the 
bystanders. It seemed to them an earnest that the new 
baronet, Sir Karl, would turn out to be a kind and considerate 
man ; as good to them, perhaps, as Sir Joseph had been. 

He listened to the tramp, tramp, until it had died away, and 
then turned in home with all his trouble and care : determined 
to search the newspapers — filed by Sir Joseph — before he went 
to rest, for some particulars of this Philip Salter. 

" Oh, that Adam w^ere but in some safer land ! ^' was the 
refrain ever beating itself upon his brain. 



"You must Step out sharp, Sir Karl. The train is on the 

Sir Karl Andinnian had hastened into the railway-station 
late on Monday morning to catch the eleven-o'clock express 
train, and was taking a ticket for London. It was the station- 
master who had addressed him, as he handed him his ticket. 
One of the porters held open the door of a first-class compart- 
ment, and Sir Karl jumped in. 

A lady was gathered into the corner beyond him, her veil 
down : there was no one else in the carriage. Karl did not 
look round at her until the train had left the station. And 
when he saw who it was, he thought his eyes must be playing 
him false. 

" Why, Rose ! " he exclaimed. ^' Can it be you ? " 

She smiled and threw back her veil, leaning towards him at 


the same moment to explain why she was there. The whistle 
set up a shriek at the time, and though Karl, his ear bent close 
to her, no doubt heard the explanation, the air of the carriage 
did not "Slight accident — last night — quite useless — would 

have me come — Rennet " were all the disconnected words 

that caught. 

*^I quite shrank from the journey at first," she said^ when 
the whistle had subsided. " I feel always shy and timid now : 
but I am not sorry to go, for it will give me the opportunity of 
making some necessary purchases. I would rather do it in 
London than Basham. In fact, I should not dare go to 
Basham myself : and I did not care to trust Ann Hopley to 
buy these fine little things for me." 

"Is Adam better?" 

"Yes, I think so: he seemed pretty well yesterday. You 
did not come to The Maze last night, Karl. He was wishing 
for you." 

Karl turned the subject. The fright he had had, coming 
out on Saturday night, would serve to keep him away for some 
days to come. In his heart of hearts he believed that, in the 
interests of prudence, the less he went to The Maze the better : 
instinct was always telling him so. 

"I suppose you will return to-night. Rose?" 

" If I can," she answered. " It depends on Rennet. Should 
I be obliged to wait until to-morrow, I shall have to sleep at an 
hotel : Adam has directed me to one." And so the conversa- 
tion innocently progressed, and the train went on. 

But now, as capricious fortune had it, who should be in that 
self-same train but Miss Blake ! Miss Blake was going up to 
London en cachette. That is to say, she had not intended Sir 
Karl and Lady Andinnian to know of the journey. Some 
grand piece of work, involving choice silks and much em- 
broidery, was being projected by Miss Blake for Mr. Catta- 
comb's use at St. Jerome's : she had determined to get the silks 
at first hand, which she could only do in London ; and took 
the train this morning for the purpose. " If I am not in to 
luncheon, don't think anything of it : I can get a biscuit out," 
she said to Lucy: and Miss Blake's outdoor engagements 
appeared to be so numerous — what with the church services, 


and hunting-up little ragamuffins from their mothers' cottages 
for instruction — that Lucy would have thought nothing of it 
had she been away all day long. Miss Blake, however, intended 
to get back in the afternoon. 

Seated in her compartment, waiting for the train to start, she 
had seen Sir Karl Andinnian come running on to the platform ; 
and she drew her face out of sight. She saw him put into a 
carriage just behind her own : and she felt a little cross that he 
should be going to London at all. 

" What is taking him, I wonder ? " she thought. " He never 
said a word about it at breakfast. I don't believe Lucy knows 

Arrived at the terminus, Miss Blake, knowing that gentlemen 
generally leap out of a train before it has stopped, kept her seat. 
Cautiously peeping to see him fairly off, she saw what she had 
not expected to see — Sir Karl helping out a lady. They passed 
on quickly : Sir Karl carrying a large clasped bag, and the lady 
clinging to his arm. She was closely veiled : but Miss Blake's 
keen eyes knew her for Mrs. Grey. 

Miss Blake could have groaned the roof off the carriage. 
She was the only passenger left in it. " The deceitful villain ! " 
she exclaimed : and then she dashed on to the platform, and 
sheltered herself behind a projecting board to look after the 

Sir Karl was putting Mrs. Grey into a four-wheeled cab. He 
handed in her reticule after her, shook hands, gave a direction 
to the driver, and the cab went off. Then he looked round for 
a hansom, and was driven away in his turn. Miss Blake, 
making good her own departure, believed she had not yet 
suspected half the tricks and turns there must be in this wicked 

" Poor Lucy ! poor wife ! " she murmured, pityingly. " May 
Heaven look down and shield her ! " 

Karl's errand in London was to find out what he could 
about Philip Salter. On the Saturday night, patiently searching 
the file of the Times^ he at length came upon the case. One 
Philip Salter had been manager to a financial firm in London, 
and for some years managed it honestly and very successfully. 
But he began speculating on his own account, lost and lost, 


^nd continued to lose, all the while using the funds that were 
not his, to prop him up and prevent exposure. To do this, 
unsuspected, he was forced to resort to forgery : to fabricate 
false bonds : to become, in short, one of the worst of felons. 
The day of discovery came ; but Mr. Salter had not waited for 
it. He was off, and left no trace, as he thought, behind him. 
Some clue, however, fancied or real, was obtained by a clever 
ordinary police officer. He went down to Liverpool, seized 
Philip Salter on board an American vessel just about to steam 
out of port, and started with him for London at once by the 
night train, disguised as he was. Midway on the road, Salter 
did what only a desperate man, fighting for very life, would 
have dared to do — he jumped from the carriage, and made his 

So much Karl read : but, though he searched onwards, he 
could see nothing else. Some of the newspapers were missing ; 
had not been filed ; and, it might be, that they were the very 
papers that gave further details. He then resolved to seek 
information elsewhere. 

All day on the Sunday it had been floating through his mind. 
His wife's ankle was better. He walked to church with her as 
usual, sitting by her side in their conspicuous pew — placed 
sideways and exposed to the eyes of all the congregation. 
Throughout the service, throughout the sermon, Karl's mind 
was dwelling on the suspicion connecting Philip Smith with 
PhiHp Salter, Lucy thought him very still : as still and sad as 
herself. The only other conspicuous pew was opposite to 
them ; it belonged to the Vicarage. Margaret Sumnor was in 
it alone, in the half-reclining seat that had been made for her. 
Mrs. Sumnor rarely went to church in the morning. The 
younger daughters were of course at St. Jerome's." 

" I will go to London to-morrow," decided Karl in his own 
mind that night. ^^ Could Smith be got away from his post of 
espionage, it might be Adam's salvation." And that had 
brought him to taking the eleven-o'clock train on Monday 

His hansom cab conveyed him to Plunkett and Plunkett's. 
That he must conduct this inquiry in the most cautiously 
delicate manner, he knew well; or he might only make bad 

Within the Maze. 14 


worse, and bring the hornet's nest, that he was always dreading, 
about his brother's head. Once let Smith — if he were really 
Salter — suspect that inquiries were being made about himself, 
and he might in revenge denounce Sir Adam. 

Mr. Plunkett, with whom Karl as well as the rest of the 
family had always transacted business, was not in town. Mr. 
George Plunkett saw him, but he was comparatively a stranger 
to Karl. Even this seemed to fetter him and make him feel 
more uneasily, but without reason, the necessity for caution. 
In a decidedly hesitating way, he said that he had a reason for 
wishing to learn some particulars about a man who had cheated 
the community a year or two ago and had made his escape ; 
one Philip Salter. He wanted to know whether he had been 
re-caught ; or, if not, where he was now supposed to be. Mr. 
George Plunkett immediately asked — not supposing there was 
any reason why he should not be told — for what purpose Sir 
Karl wished for the information. Was it that any of his friends 
had been sufferers and were hoping to recover what they had 
lost? And Karl contrived, without any distinct assertion, to 
leave this impression on the lawyer's mind. Mr. Plunkett, 
however, could give him no information about Salter, beyond 
the fact — or rather, opinion, for he was not sure — that he had 
never been retaken. The matter was not one they had any 
interest in, he observed ; and he recommended Sir Karl to go 
to Scotland Yard. 

" I will write a note of introduction for you to one of the 
head officers there, Sir Karl," he said. *^It will insure you 

But Karl declined this. *' If I went to Scotland Yard at all," 
he said, " it would be as an unknown individual, not as Sir Karl 
Andinnian. I don't much care to go to Scotland Yard." 

^'But why?" exclaimed Mr. George Plunkett. And then, in 
a moment, an idea flashed across him. He fancied that Sir 
Karl was shy of presenting himself there as the brother of the 
unfortunate man who had stood his trial for murder. 

" I have reasons for not wishing it to be known that I am 
stirring in this," admitted Karl. " Grave reasons. At Scotland 
Yard they might recognize me, and perhaps put questions that 
at present I would rather not answer." 


" Look here, then," said the lawyer. ** I will give you a letter 
to one of the men connected with the force — a detective, in 
fact. You can see him at his own house. He is one of the 
cleverest men they have, and will be sure to be able to tell you 
everything you want to know. There is not the least necessity 
for me to mention your name to him, and he will not try to 
learn it. I shall say you are a client and friend of ours, and 
that will be sufficient." 

" Thank you ; that will be best," replied Karl. 
. Mr. George Plunkett wrote the note there and then, and 
gave it to Karl. It was addressed to Mr. Burtenshaw, Euston 
Road. He took a cab and found the house — a small house 
with buff-coloured blinds to the windows. A maid-servant 
came to the door, and her untidy cap flew off as she opened it. 

*^ Can I see Mr. Burtenshaw?'' asked Sir Karl 

'^ Mr. Burtenshaw's out, sir," she replied. ^^ He left word 
that he should be back at five o'clock." 

The church clocks were striking five when Karl was at the 
door again. Mr. Burtenshaw was at home ; and Karl, declining 
to give his name, was shown to an upstairs room. A little 
man of middle age, with a sallow face and rather nice grey 
eyes, was standing by a table covered with papers. Karl bowed, 
and handed him Mr. George Plunkett's note. 

" Take a seat, sir, pray, whilst I read it," said Mr. Burten- 
shaw, instinctively recognizing Karl for a gentleman and a 
noble one. And Karl sat down near the window. 

*^ Very good ; I am at your service, sir," said the detective, 
drawing a chair opposite Karl's. " What can I do for you ? " 

With less hesitation than he had shown to Mr. George 
Plunkett, for he was gathering courage now the ice was broken, 
Karl frankly stated why he had come, and what he wanted — 
some information about the criminal, Philip Salter. 

"Do you know much about the case ?" continued Karl — for 
Mr. Burtenshaw had made no immediate reply, but sat in 

" I believe I know all about it, sir. I was wondering 
whether you had unearthed him and were come to claim the 

" The reward ! Is there an offered reward out against him ? " 


" Five hundred pounds. It was offered after he had made 
his desperate escape, and it stands good still/' 

^^ He has not been retaken, then ? " 

*^ No, never. We have failed in his case, I am ashamed to 
say. What particulars are they, sir, that you wish to hear of 
him ? Those connected with his frauds and forgeries ? " 

^^ Not those : I have read of them in some of the old papers. 
I want to know where he is supposed to be ; and what he is like 
in person." 

" Our belief is that he is still in Great Britain ; strange 
though it may sound to you to hear me say it. England or 
Scotland. After that escapade, all the ports were so thoroughly 
guarded and watched that I don't think he could have escaped. 
AVe have a more especial reason, which I do not speak of, for 
suspecting that he is here still : at least that he was here three 
months ago.'' 

'* There are a hundred places in England where he may be 
hiding," spoke Karl impulsively. *^ Where he may be living 
as an ordinary individual, just like the individuals about him." 

" Exactly so." 

" Living openly as may be said, but cautiously. Perhaps 
wearing a disguise." 

" No doubt of the disguise. False hair and whiskers, spec- 
tacles, and all that." 

Karl remembered Mr. Smith's green spectacles. His hair 
might not be his own : he wished he had taken better note 
of it. 

" And in person ? What is he like ? " 

" That I cannot tell you," said Mr. Burtenshaw. *^ I never 
saw him. Some of us know him well Grimley especially 

" Who is Grimley ? " 

" The man who let him escape. He has been under a cloud 
siiace with us. My wonder is that he was not dismissed." 

" Then, you don't know at all what Salter is like ? " 


" Are there no photographs of him ? " 

*^ I think not. I have seen none. Is it very essential your 
ascertaining this ? " 


" The most essential point of all. Is this Grimley to be got 
at? If I could see him to-day and get Salter's description 
from him, I should be more than glad." 

Mr. Burtenshaw took some ivory tablets from his pocket and 
consulted them. " I will send for Grimley here, sir. Will eight 
o'clock be too late for you ? " 

** Not at all," replied Karl, thinking he could get away by 
the half-past nine train. 

Mr. Burtenshaw escorted him to the head of the stairs, and 
watched him down, making his mental comments. 

" I wonder who he is ? He looks too full of care for his 
years. But he knows Salter's retreat as sure as a gun — or 
thinks he knows it. Won't denounce him till he's sure." 

When Karl got back at eight o'clock, some disappointment 
was in store for him. Grimley was not there. The detective 
showed the message returned to him, scribbled in pencil on a 
loose bit of paper. Karl read as follows : 

" Can't get to you before eleven : might be a little later. 
Suppose it's particular ? Got a matter on hand, and have to 
leave for the country at five in the morning." 

''Will you see him at that late hour, sir?" 

Karl considered. It would involve his staying in town for 
the night, which he had not prepared for. But he was rest- 
lessly anxious to set the question at rest, and resolved upon 

He walked away through the busy London streets, apparently 
more crowded than usual that Monday evening, and sent a 
telegraphic message to his wife, saying he could not be home 
until the morrow. Then he went into the Charing Cross 
Hotel and secured a bedroom. Before eleven he was back 
again at Mr. Burtenshaw's. Grimley came in about a quarter 
past : a powerful, tallish man, with a rather jolly face, not 
dressed in official clothes as a policeman, but in, an ordinary 
suit of pepper-and-salt. 

" You remember Philip Salter, Grimley ? " began the superior 
man at once, without any circumlocution or introduction. 

" I ought to remember him, Mr. Burtenshaw." 

" Just describe his person to this gentleman as accurately as 
you can-" 


^' He's not dropped upon at last, is he ? " returned the man, 
his whole face lighting up. 

- '^No. Don't jump to conclusions, Grimley, but do as you 
are bid." Upon which rebuke Grimley turned to Sir Karl. 

^*He was about as tall as I am, sir, and not unhke me in 
shape : that is, strongly made, and very active. His real hair 
was dark brown, and almost black — but goodness only knows 
what it's changed into now." 

*^ And his face?" questioned Karl. As yet the description 

" Well, his face was fresh-coloured, pleasant in look, and he 
w^as a free, pleasant man to talk to you. His eyes— I can't be 
sure, but I think they were dark brown : his eyebrows were 
thick and rather more arched than common. At that time his 
face was clean-shaven, whiskers and all : dare say it's covered 
with hair now." 

*^ Was he gentlemanly in his look and manners ? " 

" Yes, sir, I should say so. A rather bustling, business-kind 
of gentleman : I used to see him often before he turned rogue. 
Leastways before it was known. You'd never have thought it 
of him : you'd have trusted him through thick and thin." 

Smith at Foxwood was not bustling in his manners : rather 
quiet. But, as Sir Karl's thoughts ran, there was nothing 
down there for him to be bustling over: and, besides, the 
trouble might have tamed him. In other particulars the 
description might have served for Smith himself, and Karl's 
hopes rose. Grimley watched him keenly. 

" Have you a photograph of him ? " asked Karl. 

" No, sir. 'Twas a great pity one was never took. I might 
have had it done at Liverpool that day : but I thought I'd got 
him safe, and it didn't occur to me. Ah ! live and learn. I 
never was done before ; and I've not been since." 

'*^You let him escape you in the train ? " 

'^ I kf him : yes, sir, that's the right word ; as things turned 
out. ' Don't put the handcuffs on me, Grimley,' says he, when 
we were about to start for the up-night train. * It's not pleasant 
to be seen in that condition by the passengers who sit opposite 
you. I'll not give you any trouble : you've got me, and I yield 
to it.' ' On your honour, sir ? ' says I. * On my word and 


honour,' says he. ' To tell you the truths Grimley,' he goes on, 
* IVe led such a life of fear and suspense lately that I'm not 
sorry it's ended.' Well, sir, I put faith in him : you've heard 
me say it, Mr. Burtenshaw : and we took ' our seats in the 
carriage, me on one side, my mate, Knowles, on the other, and 
Salter, unfettered, between us. He had a thick, fluffy, grey 
wrapper on, half coat, half cloak, with them wide hanging 
sleeves : we touched the sleeves on both sides, me and Knowles. 
There was one passenger besides; he sat opposite Knowles, 
and slept a good deal. Salter slept too— or seemed to sleep. 
Well, sir, we had got well on in our journey, when from some 
cause the lamp goes out. Soon after, the train shoots into a 
tunnel, and we were in utter darkness. Salter, apparently, was 
' sleeping fast. A glimmer of light arose when we were halfway 
through it, from some opening, I suppose, and I saw the oppo- 
site passenger, as I thought, leaning out at the far window, the 
one next Knowles. The next minute there was a sound and 
a rush of air. 'Good Heavens, he has fell out,' I says to 
Knowles : and Knowles — I say he had been asleep, too, though 
he denied it — rouses up and says, ' Why, the door's open.' Sir, 
when we got out of the tunnel, the rays of the lamp at the 
opening shone in ; the opposite passenger was safe enough, his 
head nodding on his breast, but my prisoner was gone." 

Karl caught his breath ; the tale excited him. *' How could 
it have been done ? " he exclaimed. 

"The dickens knows. There was his thick, rough coat 
again' our arms, but his arms was out of it. How he had 
managed to slip 'em out and make no stir, and get off his seat 
to the door, I shall never guess. One thing is certain — he 
must have had a railway-key hid about him somewhere, and 
opened the door with it. He must have been opening it when 
I thought it was the passenger leaning out." 

"What did you do?" 

"We could do nothing, sir. Except shout to arouse the 
guard ; we did enough of that, but the guard never heard us. 
When the next station was reached, a deal of good time had 
been lost. We told what had occurred, and got the tunnel 
searched. That Salter would be found dead, everybody thought. 
Instead of that he was not found at all ; not a trace of him." 


*^ He must have received injuries," exclaimed Karl 

" I should say so," returned Grimley. " Injuries that 
perhaps he carries from that day to this." And Karl half 
started as he remembered the arm always in a sling. 

Just for a single moment the tenaptation to denounce this 
man came over him, in spite of his wish and will. Only for 
one moment : he remembered the danger to his brother, 
Besides, he would not really have betrayed Smith for the 

" What age is Salter ? " he resumed. 

" He must be about five-and-thirty now, sir. He was said 
to be three-and-thirty when it happened.'* 

That was the first check. Smith must be quite forty, 
** Did Salter look older than his years ? " he asked. 

" No, I think not. Ah, he was a cunning fox," continued 
Mr. Grimley, grating his teeth at the remembrance. *^IVe 
known since then what it is to trust to the word and honour 
of a thief. Can you tell me where to find him, sir?" he 
suddenly cried, after a pause. " To retake that man would be 
the most satisfactory piece of w^ork IVe got left to me in life." 

*^No, I cannot," replied Karl, gravely: which Mr, Grimley 
did not appear to like at all. So the interview came to an end 
without very much result; and Karl departed for his hotel. 
Both Grimley and Mr. Burtenshaw, bowing him out, remained, 
firmly persuaded in their own minds that this unknown gentle- 
man, who did not give his name, possessed some clue or other 
to the criminal Salter. 

We must return for a few minutes to Foxwood Court. Miss 
Blake returned by an early afternoon train, as she had intended, 
and found some visitors with Lady Andinnian. It was old 
General Lloyd, from Basham, with two of his daughters. They 
were asking Lady Andinnian to take luncheon with them on 
the morrow, and accompany them afterwards to the flower- 
show that was to be held at the Guildhall. Sir Karl and Miss 
Blake were included in the invitation. Lucy promised : she 
seemed worn and weary with her solitude, and she loved 
flowers greatly. For Sir Karl she said she could not answer ; 
he was in London for the day : but she thought it likely that 
he would be able to accompany her, Miss Blake left it an 


open question : St. Jerome's was paramount just now, and 
to-morrow was one of its festival days. 

They dined alone, those two, Karl not having returned for 
it : and, in spite of the trouble, it seemed very dull to Lucy 
without her husband. 

**Did you know Sir Karl was going to London?'' asked 
Miss Blake. 

*^Yes," said Lucy; "he told me this morning. He had 
business with Plunkett and Plunkett." 

Miss Blake suddenly pushed her hair from her forehead, as 
if it troubled her, and bit her hps to enforce them to silence. 

After dinner Miss Blake went out. Tom Pepp, who was 
appointed bell-ringer to St. Jerome's, in his intervals of work, 
had played truant at Matins in the morning and wanted looking 
up ; and so she went to do it. This bell was a new feature at 
St. Jerome's, and caused much talk. It was hung over the 
entrance-door, communicating with a stout string inside : which 
string Tom Pepp had to pull, to his intense delight. 

When Miss Blake got back, Lucy was still alone. The 
evening passed on, and Karl did not come. Soon after nine 
o'clock a telegraphic message arrived from him, addressed to 
Lady Andinnian. Lucy's heart beat a little faster as she 
opened and read it ; 

" I cannot get my business done to-night, and must sleep in 
town. Shall be home to-morrow." 

" I wonder what business it is that is detaining him ? " spoke 
Lucy mechanically, after handing the despatch to Theresa, her 
thoughts bent upon her absent husband. 

Theresa Blake was trembling to her fingers' ends. She 
flung down the despatch after reading it, and flung after it a 
contemptuous word. The action and the word quite startled 
Lady Andinnian. 

"I'll tell you, Lucy; I'll tell you because you ought to 
know it," she cried, scattering prudence to the winds in her 
righteous indignation ; scattering even all consideration 
touching Jane Shore, the pillory, the white sheet, and the 
lighted taper. "The plea of business is a very convenient 


one ! Sir Karl did not go to London alone this morning. 
That girl was with him." 

" What girl ? " faltered Lucy. 

" She at The Maze. She with the angel face. 

Lucy slightly shivered. For a moment she made no 
comment. Her face turned ghastly. 

" Oh, Lucy, my dear, forgive me ! " cried Miss Blake. 
" Perhaps I have been wrong to tell you ; but I cannot hear 
that you should be so deceived. I went up to London myself 
this morning after some embroidery silks that I could not get 
at Basham. Sir Karl and she were in the same train. I saw 
them get out together at the terminus.'* 

It was cruel to hear and to have to bear; but Lucy said 
never a word. Her tell-tale face had betrayed her emotion, 
but she would not let anything else betray it. 

" Perhaps both happened to have business in London," she 
quietly, said, when she could trust her voice. " I am sure Karl 
went up to go to Plunkett and Plunkett's." 

And not another allusion did she make about it. Ringing 
for Hewitt, she calmly told him his master would not be home : 
and after that talked cheerfully to Theresa until the evening was 
over. Miss Blake wondered at her. 

Calm before her and the world. But when she was alone in 
her chamber, all the pent-up anguish broke forth. Her heart 
seemed breaking ; her sense of wrong almost overmastered her. 

" And it was only on Saturday he vowed to me the sin was 
all of the past ! " she cried. And she lay in torment through 
the live-long summer night. 



The railway-station at Basham seemed never free from bustle. 
Besides appertaining to Basham proper, it was a junction for 
other places. Various lines crossed each other ; empty carriages 
and trucks of coal stood near ; porters and guards were always 
runninsf about. 


Four o'clock on the Tuesday afternoon, and the train 
momentarily expected in from London. A few people had 
collected on the platform : waiting for friends who were coming 
by it, or else intending to go on by it themselves. Amidst 
them was a young and lovely lady, who attracted some attention. 
Strangers wondered who she was : one or two knew her for the 
lady of Foxwood Court, wife of Sir Karl Andinnian. 

There had been a flower-show at Basham that day : and 
Lady Andinnian, as may be remembered, had promised to' 
attend it with the family of General Lloyd, taking luncheon 
with them first. But when the morning came, she heartily 
wished she had not made the engagement. Karl had not 
returned to accompany her. Miss Blake declared that she 
could not spare the time for it : for it happened to be a Saint's 
Day, and services prevailed at St. Jerome's. Another check 
arose : news was brought in from the coachman that one of the 
horses had been slightly hurt in shoeing, and the carriage could 
not be used that day. Upon that Lady Andinnian said she 
must go by train : for it would never have occurred to her to 
break her promise. 

" I think, Theresa, you might manage to go with me," she 

Miss Blake, calculating her hours, found she had two or 
three to spare in the middle of the day, and agreed to go : 
provided she might be allowed to leave Mrs. Lloyd's when 
luncheon was over and not be expected to go to the town-hall. 
" You will only be alone in returning, for just the few minutes 
that you are in the train, Lucy," she said. " The Lloyds will 
see you into it, and your servants can have a fly waiting for 
you at Foxwood Station." This programme had been carried 
out : and here was Lucy waiting for the four-o'clock train at 
Basham, surrounded by General Lloyd and part of his family. 

It came steaming slowly in. Adieux were' interchanged, and 
Lucy was put into what is called the ladies' carriage. Only 
one lady was in it besides herself; some one travelling from 
London. They looked at each other with some curiosity, 
sitting face to face. It was only natural ; both were young, 
both were beautiful. 

" What lovely hair ! what charming blue eyes ! and what a 


bright, delicate complexion ! '^ thought Lucy. " I wonder who 
she is." 

" I have never in all my life seen so sweet a face ! " thought 
the other traveller. *' Her eyes are beautiful : and there's such 
a loving sadness in them ! And what a handsome dress ! — 
what style altogether ! " 

Lucy's dress was a rich silk, pearl grey in colour ; her bonnet 
white ; her small parasol was grey, covered with lace, its handle 
of carved ivory. She looked not unlike a bride. The other 
lady wore black silk, a straw bonnet, and a black lace veil 
thickly ' studded with spots; which veil she had thrown back 
just after quitting Basham; and she had with her several small 
parcels. Why or wherefore neither of them knew, but each felt 
instinctively attracted by the appearance of the other. 

They were nearing Foxwood Station — it was only about eight 
minutes' distance from Basham — when Lucy, in changing her 
position, happened to throw down a bag which had been beside 
her. Both of them stooped to pick it up. 

" Oh^ I beg your pardon ! I ought to have moved it when 
you got in," said the stranger, placing it on her own side amidst 
her parcels. And Lucy, on her part, apologized for having 
thrown it down. 

It served to break the ice of reserve : and for the next 
remaining minute or two they talked together. By the stranger 
beginning to gather together her parcels, Lucy saw she was 
preparing to get out at Foxwood. 

" Are you about to make a stay in this neighbourhood ? " she 

" For the present." 

*^It is a very charming spot. We hear the nightingales 
every evening." 

" You are staying in it too, then ? " 

"Yes, it is my home." 

The train came to a standstill, and they got out. Foxwood 
Station, after the manner of some other small rural stations, 
had its few buildings on one side only : the other was open 
to the high-road, and to the fields beyond. In this road, 
drawn up close to the station, was a waiting fly, its door 
already open. The stranger, carrying some of her parcels, 


went straight up to it, supposing it was there for hire, and was 
about to get in. 

** Beg pardon, ma'am,'' said the driver, *^ this fly's engaged." 

She seemed vexed, disappointed : and looked up at him. 
" Are you sure ? " she asked. Lucy was standing close by and 

" It's here, ma'am, for the Lady Andinnian." 

"For whom?" she cried, her voice turning to sharpness with 
its haste ; her face, through her veil, changing to a ghastly 

The driver stared at her : he thought it was all anger. Lucy 
looked too, unable to understand, and slightly coloured. 

'^ For whom did you say the fly was brought ? " the lady 

"For Lady Andinnian of Foxwood Court," explained the 
man. "I shouldn't go to tell an untruth about it." 

" Oh, I — I misunderstood," she said, her voice dropping, her 
look becoming suddenly timid as a hare's : and in turning 
away with a sudden movement, she found herself face to face 
with Lucy. At that same moment, a tall footman with a 
powdered head — who had strayed away in search of amuse- 
ment, and strayed a little too far — came bustling up to his 

" This is your fly, my lady." 

By which the stranger knew that the elegant girl she had 
travelled with, and whose sweet face was then close to her own, 
was the young Lady Andinnian. Her own white face flushed 

"I — I beg your pardon," she said. "I did not know you 
were Sir Karl Andinnian's wife. The fly, I thought, was only 
there for hire." 

Before Lucy could make any answer, she had disappeared 
from the spot, and was giving some of her parcels to a porter. 
Lucy followed. 

" Can I offer to put you down anywhere ? The fly is cer- 
tainly waiting for me, but there is plenty of room for both 
of us." 

" Oh, thank you, no. You are very kind : but — no ! I can 
walk quite well. I am obliged to you all the same.'* 


The refusal was spoken very emphatically; especially the 
last No. Without turning again, she rapidly walked from the 
station, the porter carrying her parcels. 

" I wonder who she is ? '' murmured Lucy aloud, looking 
back as she was about to enter the fly, her powdered servant 
standing to bow her in. For she saw that there was no luggage, 
those small parcels excepted, and was feeling somewhat 

^'It is Mrs. Grey, my lady ; she who lives at The Maze." 

Had the footman, Giles, said it was an inhabitant of the 
world of spirits, Lucy would not have felt more painfully and 
disagreeably startled. She I And she, Lucy, had sat with her 
in the same carriage and talked to her on pleasant terms of 
equality ! She, Mrs. Grey ! Well, Theresa was right ; the face 
would do for an angel's. 

^^Why, my dear Lady Andinnian, how pale you look! It's 
the heat, I suppose.'^ 

Lucy, half bewildered, her senses seeming to have gone she 
knew not whither, found herself shaking hands with the 
speaker. Miss Patchett : an elderly and eccentric lady who 
lived halfway between the station and the village of Foxwood. 
Lucy mechanically asked her if she had come in the train. 

"Yes," answered Miss Patchett. ^' I've been to London to 
engage a housemaid. And I am tired to death, my dear, and 
the London streets were like fire. I wish I was at home with- 
out having to walk there." 

'' Let the fly take you." 

^^It's hardly worth while, my dear: it's not far. And it 
would be taking you out of your way." 

" Not many yards out of it. Step in, Miss Patchett." 

The old lady stepped in, Lucy following her : Giles took his 
place by the driver. Miss Patchett was set down at her house, 
and then the horse's head was turned round in the direction of 
Foxwood Court. The old lady had talked incessantly ; Lucy 
had comprehended nothing. St. Jerome's absurd little bell 
was being swayed and tinkled by Tom Pepp, but Lucy had not 
given it a second glance, although it was the first time she had 
had the gratification of seeing and hearing it. 

** I could almost have died, rather than it should have hap- 


pened," she thought, her face burning now at the recollection 
of the encounter with Mrs. Grey, so mortifying to every good 
feeling within her. *^ How white she turned — how sharply she 
spoke — when they told her the fly was there for Lady Andin- 
nian ! And to think that I should have offered to set her 
down ! To think it ! Perhaps those parcels contained things 
that Karl bought for her in London !" 

The fly, bowling on, was n earing The Maze gate. Lucy's 
fascinated gaze was, in spite of herself, drawn to it. A middle- 
aged woman-servant had opened it, and was receiving the 
parcels from the porter. Mrs. Grey had her purse out, paying 
him. As she put the coin into his hand, she paused to 
look at Lady Andinnian. It was not a rude look, but one that 
seemed full of eager interest. Lucy turned her eyes the other 
way, and caught a full view of Mr. Smith, the agent. He was 
stretched out at one of his sitting-room windows, surveying the 
scene with undisguised curiosity. Lucy sank into the darkest 
corner of the fly, and flung her hands over her burning face. 
^ ''Was any position in the world ever so painful as mine?" 
she cried with a rising sob. " How shall I live on, and bear 

The fly turned in at the lodge-gate and drew up at the 
house. Hewitt appeared at the door, and Giles stood for his 
mistress to alight. 

" Has Sir Karl returned, Hewitt ? " questioned Lucy. 

" Not yet, my lady." 

She stood for a moment in thought, then gave orders for the 
fly to wait, and went indoors. An idea had arisen that if she 
could have no comfort whispered to her, she should almost go 
out of her mind. Her aching heart was yearning for it. 

" Hewitt, I shall go and see poor Miss Sumnor. I should 
like to take her a small basket of strawberries and a few of 
Maclean's best flowers. Will you see to it for me, and put them 
in the fly?" 

She ran upstairs. She put off her robes alone, and came 
down in one of her cool muslins and a straw bonnet as plain 
as Mrs. Grey's. Hewitt had placed the basket of strawberries 
— some of the large pine-apple beauties that the Court was 
famous for — in the fly, together with some lovely hothouse 


flowers. Lucy got in ; told the footman she should not require 
his attendance ; and was driven away to the Vicarage. 

"Am I to wait for you, my lady?'^ asked the driver, as she 
alighted with her fruit and flowers. 

" No, thank you ; I shall walk home. 

Margaret was lying alone as usual, her face this afternoon a 
sad one. Lucy presented her little offering; and when the 
poor lonely invalid saw the tempting fruit, and smelt the sweet 
perfume of the flowers, tears came into her eyes. 

"You have brought all this to brighten me, Lucy. How 
good you are ! I have had something to try me to-day, and 
was in one of my saddest moods." 

The tears and the admission tried Lucy sorely. Just a 
moment she struggled with herself for composure, and then 
gave way. Breaking into a flood of grief, she knelt down and 
hid her face on Margaret's bosom. 

" Oh, Margaret, Margaret, you cannot have as much to try 
you as I have ! " she cried out in her pain. " My life is one 
long path of sorrow ; my heart is breaking. Can't you say a 
word to comfort me ? " 

Margaret Sumnor, forgetting as by magic all sense of her 
own trouble, tried to comfort her. She touched her with her 
caressing hand ; she whispered soothing words, as one whispers 
to a child in sorrow : and Lucy's sobs exhausted themselves. 

" My dear Lucy, before I attempt to say anything, I must 
ask you a question. Can you tell me the nature of your 
sorrow ? ^' 

But Lucy made no reply. 

" I see. It is what you cannot speak of." 

"It is what I can never speak of to you or to any one, 
Margaret. But oh, it is hard to bear." 

"It seems so to you, I am sure, whatever it may be. But 
in the very darkest trial and sorrow there is comfort to be 

" Not for me,'' impetuously answered Lucy. " I think God 
has forgotten me." 

" Lucy, hush ! You know better. The darkest cloud over- 
shadowing the earth veils a bright sky. We see only the cloud, 
but the brightness is behind it; in time it will surely show 


itself, and the cloud will have rolled away. God is above all. 
Only put your trust in Him." 

Lucy was silent. There are times when the heart is so de- 
pressed that it admits not of comfort ; when even sympathy 
cannot touch it. She bent her face in her hands and thought. 
Look out where she would, there seemed no refuge for her in 
the wide world. Her duty and the ills of life laid upon her 
seemed to be antagonistic to each other. Margaret had 
preached to her of patiently bearing, of resignation to Heaven's 
will, of striving to live on, silently hoping and returning good 
for evil. But there were moments when the opposite course 
appeared very sweet, and this moment was one of them. But 
one thought always held her back when this retaliation, this 
revenge seemed most tempting — should she not repent it in 
the future ? 

*^ Lucy, my dear," broke in the invalid's voice, always so 
plaintive, "I do not pretend to fathom this trouble of yours. 
It is beyond me. I can only think it must be some difference 

between you and your husband " 

, *^And if it were?" interrupted Lucy, recklessly. 
■ " If it were ! Why, then, I should say to you, above all 
things, bea7\ You do not know, you cannot possess any idea 
of the bitter life of a woman really at issue with her husband. 
I know a lady — but she does not live in these parts, and you 
have never heard of her — who separated from her husband. 
She and my own mother w^ere at school together, and she 
married young and, it was thought, happily. After a time she 
grew jealous of her husband; she had cause for it) he was 
altogether a gay, careless man, fond of show and pleasure. 
For some years she bore a great deal in silence, the world 
knowing nothing of things being Vv^rong between them. Papa 
could tell you more about this than I : I was only a little child : 
how he and my mother, the only friends who were in her con- 
fidence, urged her to go on bearing, with what patience she 
might, and trusting to God to set wrong things right. For a 
long while she listened to them ; but there came a time when 
she allowed exasperation to get the better of her; and the 
world was astonished by hearing that she and her husband had 
agreed to separate. Ah, Lucy ! it was then that her life of real 

Within the Maze. 15 


anguish set in. Just at first, for a few weeks or so, perhaps 
months, she was borne up by the excitement of the thing, by 
the noise it made in the world, by the gratification of taking 
revenge on her husband — by I know not what. But as the 
long months and the years went on, and all excitement, I may 
almost say all interest in life, had faded, she then saw what she 
had done. She was a solitary woman, condemned to an 
unloved and solitary existence, and she repented her act with 
the whole strength of her bitter and lonely heart. Better, 
Lucy, that she had exercised patience, and trusted in God; 
better for her own happiness." 

^^And what of her now?" cried Lucy, eagerly. 

" Nothing. Nothing but what I tell you. She lives away 
her sohtary years, not a day passing but she wishes to Heaven 
that that one fatal act of hers could be recalled — -the severing 
herself from her husband." 

^' And he, Margaret ? " 

** He ? For aught I know to the contrary, he has been as 
happy since as he was before; perhaps, in his complete 
freedom, more so. She thought, poor woman, to work out her 
revenge upon him; instead of that, it was on herself she 
worked it out. Men and women are different. A separated 
man — say a divorced man, if you like — can go abroad ; here, 
there, and everywhere ; and enjoy life without hindrance, and 
take his pleasure at will : but a woman, if she be a right-minded 
woman, must stay in her home-shell, and eat her heart away." 

Lucy Andinnian sighed. It was no doubt all too true. 

** I have related this for your benefit, Lucy. My dear little 
friend, at all costs stay imth your hicsband,^^ 

" I should never think of leaving him for good as that other 
poor woman did," sobbed Lucy. " I should be dead of grief 
in a year." 

^'True. Whatever your cross may be, my dear — and I 
cannot doubt that it is a very sharp and heavy one — take it up 
as bravely as you can, and bear it. No cross, no crown." 

Some of the school-children came in for a lesson in fine w^ork 
— stitching and gathering — and Lady Andinnian took her de- 
parture. She had not gained much comfort ; she was just as 
miserable as it was possible to be. 


The church bell was going for the five-o'clock evening service. 
Since the advent of St. Jerome's Mr. Sumnor had opened his 
church again for daily service, morning and evening. This, 
however, was a Saint's day. A feeling came over poor Lucy 
that she should like to sob out her heart in prayer to God ; and 
she slipped in. Not going down the aisle to their own con- 
spicuous pew, but into an old-fashioned, square, obscure pew 
near the door, that was filled on Sundays with the poor, and 
hidden behind a pillar. There, unseen, unsuspected, she knelt 
on the floor; she lifted up her heart on high, sobbing silent 
sobs of agony, bitter tears raining from her eyes ; asking God 
to hear and help her ; to help her to bear. 

She sat out the service and grew composed enough to join in 
it. The pillar hid her from the clergyman's view; no one 
noticed that she was there. So far as she could see, there were 
not above half-a-dozen people in the church. In going out, 
Mr. Sumnor and Mr. Moore's sister, Aunt Diana, came up and 
joined her. 

" I did not know you were in church, Lady Andinnian," said 
the clergyman. 

" The bell was going when I left your house ; I had been to 
see Margaret : so I stepped in," she replied. " But what a 
very small congregation ! " 

" People don't care to attend on week-days, and that's the 
truth," put in Miss Moore — a middle-aged, stout lady, with her 
brown hair cut short and a huge flapping hat on. " And the 
young folks are all ofl" to that blessed St. Jerome's. My nieces 
are there ; I know it. And so are your two daughters, Mr. 
Sumnor, more shame for them ! " 

"Ay," sighed Mr. Sumnor, whose hair and face were alike 
grey, and his look as sad as his tone. ** Their running to St. 
Jerome's, as they do, is nothing less, in my eyes, than a scandal. 
I don't know what is to be the end of it all." 

^' End of it all ? " echoed Aunt Diana, in her strong-minded 
voice. *^ Why, the end will be nothing but a continuation of 
the folly ; or perhaps worse — Rome, or a convent, or some- 
thing of that kind. I truly believe, Mr. Sumnor, that heaven 
above was never so mocked since the world began, as it is 
noW; by this semblance of zeal in boys and girls for religious 


services and worship. The true worship of a Christian, 
awakened to his state of sin and to the need he has of God's 
forgiveness and care, of Christ's love, is to be reverenced — but 
that is totally different from this business at St. Jerome's. This 
is hollow at the core ; born of young men's and young girls' 
vanity. Does all the flocking thither come of religion, think 
you ? Not it." 

*^ Indeed no," said Mr. Sumnor. 

'^ And, therefore, I say it is a mockery of true religion, and 
must be a sin in the sight of Heaven. They run after Mr. 
Cattacomb himself: nothing else. I went to St. Jerome's 
myself this morning ; not to say my prayers ; just to watch my 
nieces, and see what was going on. They had all sorts of 
ceremonies and folly : three of the girls had been there before- 
hand, confessing to the Reverend Guy : and there was he, 
performing the service and turning up the tails of his eyes." 

^'Oh, Miss Diana," involuntarily exclaimed Lucy, hardly 
knowing whether to laugh or reprove. 

^'It is true, Lady Andinnian. Mr. Sumnor here knows it is. 
Why does Cattacomb go through his service with all that 
affectation ? Of course the girls like it : but they are little 
fools, all of them ; they'd think anything right that was done 
by him. I fancy the young man has some good in him; I 
acknowledge it; but he is eaten up with vanity, and lives in the 
incense offered by these girls. Ah well, it's to be hoped they 
will all, priest and children, come to their senses sometime." 

She turned into her home as she spoke, after wishing them 
good-bye. Lucy stayed to shake hands with the clergyman. 

'^ Miss Diana is given to expressing herself strongly, but she 
is right in the main," said Mr. Sumnor. " St. Jerome's is 
giving me a great deal of trouble and sorrow just now, in more 
ways than one. But we have all something to bear," he added, 
after a pause. *' All. Sometimes I think that the more painful 
it is, the more God is caring for us. Fare you well, my dear 
young lady. Give my kind regards to Sir Karl." 

Lucy walked homewards, a feeling of peace insensibly diffusing 
itself over her afflicted soul. The clergyman's words had 
touched her. 

Verses of Holy Writ, and thoughts connected with them, 


kept rising in her mind as messages of consolation. In her 
misery she felt how very weak and weary she was ; that there 
was nothing for her but to resign herself to Heaven's protecting 
hand, as a helpless child. The cry for it broke out involuntarily 
from her lips. 

** Lord, I am oppressed. Undertake for nie ! " 



Dinner was waiting when Lady Andinnian entered, and the 
first person she saw was her husband. He met her in the hall 
with outstretched hands, his face clear and open, showing no 
signs of shame or guilt. 

** Did you think I was lost, Lucy ? " 

She suffered her hand to touch his ; for Hewitt and the tall 
footman, Giles, were standing in the hall, looking on. Sir Karl 
saw how red her eyes were. 

** I meant to have returned by an earlier train ; but as I had 
the day before me, I took the opportunity of seeing after a few 
things I wanted to purchase — and the time slipped on," said 
Karl. " How have you been, Lucy ? " 

^* Oh, quite well, thank you." 

**AVhom do you think I travelled down with ?" he went on. 
" My old friend, Lamprey. He had to come to Basham on some 
matter of business : so I have brought him here to dinner. 
Make haste," he added, as she turned to the staircase. " It 
must be almost ready." 

*^ I will be down directly," she answered. 

Aglae was waiting; and in five minutes Lucy came down 
again, dressed. Captain Lamprey was introduced to her — for 
it happened that they had not been personally acquainted when 
at Winchester, though he had frequently seen her — and gave 
her his arm into the dining-room. Miss Blake fell to Karl. 

But in Lucy's heart-sickness, she could scarcely be cheerful. 
Her tell-tale eyes were heavy ; there arose ever and anon one 
of those catching sighs that speak most unmistakably of hidden 


grief: and, altogether, Captain Lamprey felt somewhat dis- 
appointed in Lady Andinnian. He remembered how beautiful 
Lucy Cleeve used to be : he had heard of the renewed gaiety 
of heart her marriage with Karl had brought her : but he saw 
only a sad woman, who w^as evidently not too happy, and whose 
beauty was marred by sadness. Karl was more cheerful than 
usual : and Miss Blake seemed indefatigable in inquiring after 
Winchester and its people. But in the midst of all his obser- 
vations, Captain Lamprey never suspected that there was any- 
thing but perfect cordiality between Sir Karl and his wife. 
And the dinner came to an end. 

After coffee. Captain Lamprey set out to walk to Basham. 
Karl went out with him, to put him in the right road and 
accompany him part of the way. Miss Blake had gone to 
Vespers. Lucy was alone. 

It seemed to her to be dull everyv/here ; especially dull in- 
doors, and she stepped out to the lawn : turning back almost 
immediately to get a shawl for her shoulders, in obedience to 
an injunction of her husband's. On the Sunday evening, when 
he found her sitting out of doors without one, he had fetched 
one at once, and begged her not to be imprudent or to forget 
her ague-fever of the previous year. She remembered this now, 
and went back for the shawl. Some wives, living in estrange- 
ment from their husbands, might have studiously set his com- 
mands at naught, and have risked ague, or what not, rather 
than obey them. Not so Lucy Andinnian. She was meek and 
gentle by nature. Moreover, in spite of the ill-feeling he had 
caused to rise up between them, in spite of her sense of wrong 
and insult, she loved Karl in her heart, and could not help it, 
as truly as ever. Visions would steal over her, in unguarded 
moments of the present trouble being hushed to rest ; of all 
that was amiss being done away with, and she and he recon- 
ciled and at peace again. Unhappily for the demands of pride 
and self-assertion, Lucy was by no means one of your high- 
spirited and strong-minded heroines who rashly overlook all 
interests to indulge in reprisals and revenge. 

She folded the shawl about her — one of substantial white silk 
crepe — as carefully as Karl could have folded it ; and she 
remained, she knew not how long, in the open air. Pacing the 


lawn j sitting amidst the flowers ; standing under the shade of 
the trees ; always in deep thought. The nightingale sang, and 
the tears gathered in her eyes as she listened to the strain. 
^^ What a sweet place this would be to live in/^ thought Lucy, 
" if only we had peace ! " 

But the nightingale's song and the oppressive thoughts, 
together with the deepening twilight, brought back all her low 
spirits again. " There will never be any more happiness for 
me in this world ; never, never," she sighed, and the tears were 
falling as she went up to her own room. 

By-and-by Sir Karl returned. Not seeing his wife downstairs, 
he went up and knocked at the door of her little sitting-room. 
He had not had an opportunity of speaking a private word to 
her since his return. There came no answer, and he entered. 
The room was empty : but as he stood for a moment in the 
deep silence of tw^ilight, the sound of sobs in Lucy's bed- 
chamber smote upon his ear. He knocked at it. 

'' Lucy ! " 

She had, indeed, once more given way to all the abandon- 
ment of grief. Which was very foolish : but perhaps its 
indulgence brought a sort of relief, and indeed her spirit was 
very sore. The knock startled her : but she had not heard the 

^' Who's there?" she asked, stepping to the door and stifling 
her sobs. 

" I want to speak to you, Lucy." 

She dried her eyes and unlocked the door, and made believe 
to be calmly indifferent, as she stepped into the sitting-room. 

'*I beg your pardon. Sir Karl. I was busy, and did not 
hear you." 

^^You are looking very ill, Lucy," he said, with concern. 
" I thought so when I first saw you this afternoon. Then, as 
now, your eyes were red with weeping." 

She strove for calmness; she prayed for it. Her deter- 
mination had been taken to bury in haughty silence all she had 
learnt of the London journey, its despicable deceit, and insult 
to her. She could not have spoken of it; no, not even to re- 
proach him and to bring his shame home to him : it would 
have inflicted too much humiliation on her sensitive spirit. 


Besides, he must know what she suffered as well as she herself 

^' I have had rather a tiring day," she answered, leaning 
against the open window. " There was the elaborate luncheon 
with General and Mrs. Lloyd, and the flower-show afterwards. 
The weather was warm and oppressive.'* 

" That may account for your being tired and not looking 
well : but not for the weeping, Lucy. As I stood here, waiting 
for you to answer my knock, I heard you sobbing." 

" Yes,'' she said, rather faintly, feeling how useless it would 
be to deny that there had been some weeping. " I get a little 
low-spirited sometimes in the evening." 

'^ But why? Why?" 

" Is life so pleasant with us just now that I can always be 
gay, think you ? " she retorted, after a pause, a tone of resent^ 
ment in her voice. 

^' But the unpleasantness is of your making ; not mine. You 
know it, Lucy." 

^^ Then — then it is right that I should be the one to suffer," 
was her impatient answer— for his words were trying her almost 
beyond endurance. ^^ Let it be so. I do not wish to speak of 
it further." 

Karl was standing at the opposite corner of the window, 
facing her, his arms folded. On his part he was beginning to 
be a httle out of patience too, with what he deemed her un- 
reasonable caprice. For a few moments there was silence. 

^^What I want to tell you is this, Lucy. My visit to London 
was connected with that wish which you seem to have so much 
at heart — though I cannot exactly understand why '* 

" I have no wish at heart," she resentfully interrupted. 

*' Nay, but hear me. The wish you expressed to me I think 
you must have at heart, since on its fulfilment you say depends 
our reconciliation. I speak of the removal of— of the tenants 
of The Maze," he added, half breaking down, in his sensitive 
hesitation. " Since my conversation with you on Saturday, 
during which, if you remember, this stipulation of yours was 
made, there occurred, by what I should call a singular chance, 
only that I do not believe anything is chance that affects our 
vital interests in this life — there occurred a slight circumstance 


by which I thought I saw a possibihty of carrying out your 
wish '^ 

" You said then that it was your wish also,'^ again interrupted 
Lucy. ^^ Or affected to say it." 

** Your wish for it cannot be as hearty as mine/^ he impul- 
sively answered. " I pray for it night and day." 

And Lucy could not well mistake the emotional earnestness. 
She believed him there. 

'^ Well, I thought I saw a chance of it," he resumed, " and I 
went to get some information, that I fancied might help me, 
from Plunkett and Plunkett " 

" Is it fitting that you should give these details to me ? " she 
haughtily interposed. 

^'I wish you to understand that I am doing my best. Plun- 
kett and Plunkett could not give me the information : but they 
directed me to some people where I might obtain it. To 
enable me to see one of these people, I had to remain in town 
all night ; and that was the reason of my not getting home." 

Lucy had taken a spray of jessamine from her waist-band, 
and stood pulling it to pieces, listening w^ith an air of indif- 

^* I do not really know more than I did before I went to 
town, as to whether or not The Maze can be set at liberty," he 
went on. *^ But I have a good hope of it. I think I may be 
able to accomplish it, though perhaps not immediately. It may 
take time." 

" As you please, of course," answered Lucy, coldly. " It is 
nothing to me." 

Karl Andinnian had one of the sweetest tempers in the 
world, and circumstances had taught him patience and en- 
durance. But he felt grieved to his very heart at her cutting 
indifference, and for once his spirit rebelled against it. 

*^Lucy, how dare you treat me so? What have I done 
to deserve it from you ? You must know and see what a life 
of tempest and apprehension mine is. There are moments 
when I feel that I could welcome death, rather than continue 
to live it." 

She was not ungenerous. And, as he so spoke, it struck her 
that, whatever her wrongs, she had been petty and ungracious 


to him now. And perhaps — Heaven knew — he was really 
striving to rid himself of Mrs. Grey as earnestly as she could 
wish it. Her countenance softened. 

" I am as a man caught in a net from which there is no ex- 
trication," he resumed, with increasing emotion. "My days 
are so full of care that I envy the poor labourers at work by 
the roadside, and wish I was one of them — anything in the 
world, good or bad, but what that world calls me — Sir Karl 
Andinnian. And my wife, whom I have loved with my heart's 
best love, and whom I might have fondly hoped would pity my 
strait and comfort me — turns against me. God forgive you for 
your harshness, Lucy." 

The reproaches wrung her heart terribly. In the moment's 
repentance, she believed she had judged him more hardly than 
he deserved. Her tones, as she replied, were gentle. 

" I have to bear on my side too, Karl. You forget that." 

No, he did not forget it. But the moment's anger was para- 
mount just then. A hot retort was on his lips ; when the sight 
of her face, sad with its utter sorrow, struck on every generous 
chord he possessed, and changed his mood to pity. He crossed 
over and took her unresisting hands in his. 

" Forgive my words, Lucy : you tried me very much. We 
have both something to forgive each other." 

She could not speak ; sobs were rising in her throat. Karl 
bent forward and kissed her passionately. 

" Need we make life worse for one another than it is ? " he 

*^I cannot help it," she returned. "Don't blame me, for I 
cannot help it." 

^'Suppose I take the matter into my own hands, Lucy, and 
say you shall help it." 

" You will not do that," she said, the implied threat restoring 
her coldness and calmness, though her face turned as pale as 
the blossoms of the jessamine. " Things are bad enough as 
they are, but that would make them worse. I should leave 
your home for good and all — and should have to say why I 
do so." 

She knew how to subdue him. This exposure, if she carried 
it out, might cost his brother's safety. Karl, feeling his help- 


lessness most bitterly, dropped her hands, and went back to his 
post at the other side of the window. 

^* I have not said quite all I wish to say," he began, in a 
voice from which emotion had passed. *^ As I had the day in 
London before me, I thought I would look after a pony-chaise 
for you, Lucy, and I found a beauty. It will be home in a 
day or two." 

*^ But you have not bought it ? ''* 

" Yes, I have." 

*^0h, I'm sorry! I did not want one. But it was very 
kind of you to think of me, Karl," she added, in her gratitude. 

" And there's a pretty pony to match it : a small, quiet, 
gentle creature. I hope you will like him. I cannot have you 
running about the place on foot, making yourself ill with the 

^* Thank you; thank you. But I never drove in my life. I 
fear 1 should be a coward." 

" I will drive you until you grow used to him. That is, if 
you will permit me. Lucy, believe me, amidst all my care and 
trouble, your happiness lies next my heart." 
; On his way to leave the room, he stopped and shook hands 
with her : perhaps as an earnest of his friendliness. Theresa 
Blake, walking on the lawn beneath, had seen them conversing 
together at the window. She thought a taste of Jane Shore's 
pillory might not have been amiss to bring Lady Andinnian to 
her senses. 

Presently Lucy went down and had tea with Theresa, pre- 
siding herself at the cups and saucers by moonlight — for there 
was little light of day left. Sir Karl did not appear. He was 
in his room on the other side the house, holding some colloquy 
with Hewitt. 

" I am going to have a pony-chaise, Theresa." 

*' Oh, indeed," returned Miss "Blake, who seemed in rather a 
crusty humour. " I thought I heard you say that you did not 
require one." 

" Perhaps I may be glad of it, for all that. At any rate. Sir 
Karl has bought it, pony, and chaise, and all ; and they will be 
down this week." 

Miss Blake's face was a scornful one just then, in her con- 


demnation of wrong-doing. " He bribes her into blindness/' 
was the thought that ran through her head. • 

" Why are your eyes so red and heavy, Lucy ? They were 
so at dinner." 

"My eyes red!" artfully responded Lucy. "Are they? 
Well^ I have had rather a tiring day, Theresa ; and it has been 
so very hot, you know. You ought to have waited for the 
flower-show. It was one of the best I ever saw." 

" Yes, I should have liked it." 

"I took poor Miss Patchett home in my fly, from the 
station," went on Lucy, who seemed to be running from one 
topic to another, perhaps to divert attention from herself. 
"She had been to London to engage a servant, and looked 
ready to drop with the heat. Did you ever know^ it so hot 
before, Theresa?" '; 

"I think not. Not for a continuance. Is Sir Karl going to 
take any tea? Nothing else is so refreshing these sultry 

" He says tea only makes him hotter," returned Lucy, with a 
siiile. " Ring the bell, please, Theresa, if you don't mind : 
you are nearer to it than I am." 

Giles appeared, in answer, and was sent by Lucy to inquire 
whether his master would take tea or not. The message 
brought forth Karl himself. The moon was shining upon the 

" I'll take a cup of tea if you will put in plenty of milk to 
cool it," said he. " How romantic you look here, sitting in the 
moonlight ! Thank you, Lucy." 

"We are glad to do without lights so long as we can in this 
weather," observed Miss Blake. "They make the room 

He took the tea standing, and went back again. Lucy sent 
the tray away, and presently ordered the lights in. She then 
ensconced herself in an easy«chair with one of the romances 
Karl had brought her on the Saturday : and Miss Blake strolled 
out of doors. 

At first Lucy held the book upside down. Then she read a 
page three times over, and could not take it in. Ah, it was of 
no use, this playing at light-hearted ease. She might keep up 


the farce tolerably well before people ; but when alone with 
herself and her misery, it was a senseless mockery. 

Leaving the book behind her, she went wandering about 
from room to room. The windows of all were thrown open, to 
catch what little air there might be. As she stood in one of 
the unlighted rooms, Karl passed along the terrace. She drew 
back lest he should see her, and heard him go into the lighted 
drawing-room and call her. 


Not a word would she answer. She just stood back against 
the wall in the dark beyond the curtain, and kept still. He 
went out again, and began pacing the opposite path in the 
shade cast by the overhanging trees. Lucy watched' him. 
Suddenly he plunged into the trees, and she heard one of the 
private gates open and close. 

" He is gone there,''^ she said, the pulses of her heart quicken- 
ing, her face taking a deathly tinge in the moonhght. 

Miss Blake, who had been also lingering in the garden, in 
some of its shaded nooks and corners, her thoughts busy with 
Guy Cattacomb and with certain improvements that reverend 
man was contemplating introducing at St. Jerome's, had also 
seen Sir Karl, and watched his stealthy exit. She immediately 
ghded to another of the small private gates, cautiously opened 
it, and looked out. 

= " Yes, I thought so : he is off to The Maze," she mentally 
cried, as she saw Sir Karl, who had crossed the road, walking 
towards that secluded spot, and keeping close to the opposite 
hedge. The moonlight fell pretty broadly upon the road to- 
night, but the dark hedge screened him in a degree. Miss 
Blake's eyes were keen by moonlight or by daylight. She 
watched him pass under the trees : she watched him open the 
gate, and enter. And Miss Blake, religious woman that she 
was, wondered that the skies did not fall down upon such a 
monster in human shape ; she wondered that the same pure air 
from heaven could be permitted to be breathed by him and by 
that earthly saint, the Reverend Guy. 

Some few of us, my readers, are judging others in exactly the 
same mistaken manner now : and have no more suspicion that 
we are wrong and they are right than Miss Theresa Blake had. 




Sir Karl locked the gate safely, wound himself through the 
maze, and soon reached the open space before the house. 
Part of the grass-plat was steeped in light, and he saw Mrs, 
Grey walking there. He crossed over to her. 

"Did you get back yesterday, Rose?" he inquired, after 
shaking hands. 

'' No, not until this afternoon. Rennet kept me. I saw 
him when I drove there yesterday : but he was then preparing 
to go out of town for the rest of the day on business, and it was 
impossible for him to do what was wanted before this morning. 
So I had to wait in town.'^ 

" I wonder we did not chance to travel down together, 
then ! '^ observed Karl. " I did not return until this afternoon. 
Would you like to take my arm. Rose, whilst you walk ? '' 

"Thank you," she answered, and took it. She had on the 
black dress she had worn in London, and her golden hair 
gleamed with all its beauty in the moonlight. Karl noticed 
that she leaned upon him somewhat heavily. 

*• You are tired, Rose ! '^ 

" I felt very tired when I got home. But Ann Hopley 
preaches to me so much about the necessity of taking exercise, 
that I thought I would walk about here for half-an-hour. I 
have had scarcely any walking to-day; I was so fatigued with 
the journey and with the shopping yesterday that I had to keep 
as still as possible this morning. But there was a good deal to 
do j what with Rennet and some errands I had left to the last." 

*^ Where's Adam?" 

"Indoors. He is complaining of that sensation of pain 
again. I do not like it at all, Karl." 

*^And whilst he is lying concealed here he cannot have 
medical advice. At least I don't see how it would be possible." 

" It would not be possible,'^ said Rose, decisively. " Oh, 
but I forgot — I have to tell you something, Karl. Whom do 
you think I travelled with from Basham to Foxwood ? " 


" I don't know." 

"Your wife." 

" My wife ! " 

" It is true. I was in the ladies' carriage alone all the way 
from London, At Basham, a young and elegant girl in pearl- 
grey silk and a white bonnet, with the daintiest parasol I ever 
saw, was put in. An old gentleman — she called him ' General ' 
— and some ladies were with her on the platform. We were 
alone in the carriage, she and I ; and I think we looked at 
each other a good deal. What she thought of me I don't 
know ; but I thought that she had one of the sweetest and 
gentlest faces my eyes ever rested on. She had a sweet voice, 
too, for we spoke a little just as we got to Foxwood ?" 

" But did you know her ? — did she know you ? " interrupted 

*^ No, no. I should have had no idea as to who she was, 
but that some question arose about the one fly waiting there, 
and some one said it had been brought for Lady Andinnian. 
Karl, if ever I felt startled in my life, it was then." 

" Why were you startled ? " 

"Don't you see? ^Lady Andinnian!' I took it at the 
moment to mean myself, and I felt my face turn white at the 
danger. Fear is quick ; and I am living in it always, Karl. 
What I thought was, that Adam had sent that fly for me, 
supposing I might arrive by that train ; and that, in his in- 
cautious way, or perhaps out of bravado, he had given my true 
name. Of course, nothing could have been more absurd than 
this fancy of mine — but it arose to me. Almost at once I 
recognized my mistake, and saw how it was — that she was the 
Lady Andinnian meant, Sir Karl's wife. I think I said some- 
thing to her, but I was so confused I hardly know. I have 
wondered since that I did not guess who she was at first, from 
her attire and her beauty." 
, *^ Lucy did not tell me of this." 

" Oh dear, no, she would not be likely to recall it, or to 
know me from any other stranger one may meet in travelling. 
Adam says you love her to excess : I am sure, Karl, I don't 
wonder at it." 
- He made no answer. Yes^ he loved his wife with a won- 

24o WlTHR>t THE MAZE. 

drous love : but just now she was trying that love very 

*'And about the matter you went up upon?" resumed Mrs. 
Grey. ''Did you succeed in learning anything of Philip 

"Not much. I joined you on the grass here to tell you 
what I did learn, before going in to Adam. Salter has never 
been retaken : and the police have an idea that he is still in 
concealment in England. There's a reward of five hundred 
pounds out against him." 

** Why do they think he is in England ? " asked Rose, quickly. 

" I don't know. They would not tell me." 

" You communicated with the police, then, Karl. You were 
not afraid ? " 

'' Not with the police as a body, but with one of their private 
detectives : a Mr. Burtenshaw. Plunkett and Plunkett gave 
me a note to him. It was he who said he believed Salter to 
be still in the country : but the reason for believing it he would 
not give me." 

*' And did you get him described ? " 

" Yes, by the very man who let him escape : a policeman 
named Grimley : Burtenshaw sent for him. In almost every 
particular his description tallies with Smith." 

'' Oh, Karl ! he is certainly Salter." 

** Does Smith wear his own hair ? " 

*'Yes. At least," she added, less decisively, "if it were 
false I think I should not have failed to notice it. It is very 
dark; his w^hiskers are nearly black and his hair is only a 
shade lighter." 

*' Just so. But — I should say Smith was forty." 

" About that." 

*'Well, Salter, they say, would be now only five-and-thirty. 
I don't attach much importance to the disparity," added Karl. 
" Salter's trouble may have prematurely aged him." 

" What shall you do in it ? " she resumed, after a pause, 
" It seems to me that if we could get Smith removed so as to 
leave Adam, in that sense, free, half our dreadful trouble would 
be over." 

** I don't know what I shall do," replied Karl. " It will not 


do to stir an inch, as to the bringing it home to Smith, unless 
I am sure and certain. At present. Rose, it seems to be for 
me only another care added to the rest." 

" Karlo, old fellow, is that you ? " interrupted a voice from 
the passage-window over the porch. " What on earth do you 
stay chattering to the wife for? I want you." 

Karl looked up, nodded to his brother, and went in. Adam 
was in his ordinary evening attire, and just as gay as usual. 
He waited for Karl at the head of the stairs, and they went 
together into the sitting-room that was always used at night. 
This sitting-room had a second door; one in the panelling, 
not visible to a casual observer. It communicated with a 
passage that nothing else communicated with; the passage 
led up to a spiral staircase, and that with nobody knew what 
or where. Had Adam Andinnian been surprised in his retreat 
by his enemies, it was by that private door he would have made 
his escape, or tried to make it. 

" Rose says you are not very well, Adam : that you are 
feeling the pain again," began Karl. *^ What do you think 
it is?" 

'' Goodness knows : I don't," returned Adam. *' My opinion 
is, that I must in some way have given my inside a deuce 
of a wrench. I don't tell Rose that : she would set on and 
worry herself to death about it." 

*'I hope it is nothing serious— that it will soon pass off. 
You see, Adam, the cruel difficulty we should be in, if you 
were to require medical advice." 

** Oh, bother ! " cried Adam. 

'' Why do you say ' bother? ' " 

*^ Because it is bother, and nothing else. When did I ever 
want medical advice ? In general health, I'm as strong as a 

*^When we were young men at home, they used to say I 
had twice the constitution that you had, Adam, in spite of your 
strong looks." 

*'Home fallacy!" said Adam, lightly. "It was the father 
used to say that, I remember. For the most part, the preach- 
ing that people make over ^constitution' is worth no more 
than the breath wasted on it. The proof of a pudding is in 

Within the Maze. 16 


the eating : and the proof of a sound constitution lies in a 
man's good strength. I am stronger than you, Karl.'' 

^' As regards muscular strength, you are." 

^^And what's muscular strength a proof of, pray, but con- 
stitutional strength? Come, old wiseacre ! " 

To argue with Adam Andinnian had been always about as 
profitable as to tell a ship to sail against the wind. So Karl 
said no more about strength. 

" The chance that such a necessity may arise, Adam, and 
the difficulty and danger that would attend it '' 

" What necessity ? " interrupted Adam. 

" Your requiring a medical man. Your wife will want one ; 
"but that's different; she is supposed to be living here alone, 
and you will of course take care to keep out of the way at that 
time. But the other thought does cross my mind anxiously 
now and again." 

^'Karlo, old fellow, you were always one of the anxious ones. 
I am content to leave problems alone until they come before 
me. It is the best way." 

" Sometimes it may be : not always. Of course all these 
thoughts turn to one point, Adam — the urgent reasons that 
exist for your quitting The Maze." 

^' And I am not going to quit it." 

^' The advance of those people on Saturday night : the 
studied tramp of the police gave me a fright, Adam. Let us 
suppose such a thing for a moment as that they had been 
coming after you ! No earthly aid could have shielded you." 

" But they were not coming after me, you see : they were 
only carrying some poor dead man to his home on my estate. 
The same fear may apply wherever I go." 

" No, it could not. It could apply nowhere as it does here. 
In some place abroad, Adam, you would be comparatively 
safe. I am convinced that this locality is, of all, the most 

^^ If I were already at the some place you mention, wherever 
that may be, I should undoubtedly be more out of the 
reach of English constables and warders than I am now : but 
as matters stand, Karl, I am safer here, because the danger to 
me would lie in getting away, I shall not attempt to do it." 


Karl paused for a few minutes before he resumed. His 
brother, sitting near the shaded lamp, was turning over the 
pages of the Art Journal^ a copy of which Mrs. Grey had 
brought from London. 

*' How came you to know Smith, Adam?'^ 

"How came I to know Smith !'' repeated Sir Adam. "To 
tell you the truth, Karl, Smith saved me. But for his shelter- 
ing me in the time you know of, I should not be at liberty 
now ; probably not in life. Until then he was a stranger to 

"And for saving you he exacts his black mail." 

" Little blame to him for it," returned Sir Adam," with a half- 

" I believe the man is keeping you here," continued Karl : 
"that you dare not go away unless he lifts his finger." 

"Naturally he is anxious for my safety, Karl; for the sake 
of his own self-interest." 

"Precisely so. He would rather keep you here in danger 
than suffer you to escape to freedom. Do you know anything 
of his antecedents ? " 

" Nothing. For all I can tell, as to who or what the man 
was before that night he rescued me, he might have dropped 
from the moon." 

"And since then it has been the business of your life to 
conciliate him, Adam ! " 

"What would you? The man knows that I am Adam 
Andinnian : and, knowing it, he holds a sword over me. Is it 
worth my while, or not, to try to keep it from falling ? " 

Karl sighed deeply. He saw all the intricacies of the case ; 
and, what was worse, he saw no escape from them. If only 
he could feel that his brother was passably safe at The Maze, 
he would have been less uneasy : but a secret instinct, that he 
surely believed to be a prevision, warned him of danger. 

" I wish, with my whole heart, Adam^ that you had never 
come here ! " In his dire perplexity, the reiterated cry broke 
from him. 

Sir Adam threw down the Art Journal^ and turned to 
confront his brother, leaning a little forward in his chair. His 
face was flushed, his voice passionate. 


" Karl, did you ever try to realize to yourself all the horrors 
of my position at Portland ? " he asked. ^' I, a gentleman, with 
a gentleman's habits — and a man to whom freedom of will and 
of limb was as the very essence of life — was condemned for 
ever to confinement ; to mate with felons ; to be pointed at as 
one of a herd of convict labourers. A felon myself, you will 
perhaps say ; but I do not so recognize it. Had I been guilty 
of anything disgraceful? No. I was perfectly justified in 
shooting that man Scott, after my solemn warning to him. 
Remember, it was my wife he insulted that evening; not 
simply, as the world was allowed to believe, my young neigh- 
bour. Miss Rose Turner. What would you feel if some low 
reprobate seized your wife, Lucy, before your eyes, and 
pressed his foul kisses on her innocent face ? Your blood 
would be up, I take it." 

^' Adam, since I knew Rose was your wife, I have thought 
very differently of your offence." 

" To go on. Can you realize a tithe of what it was for me on 
Portland Island ? " 

" From the time you went there until I heard of your death, 
I never ceased to realize it to my own soul night or day." 

" Karl, I believe it. I remember what your tender nature 
always used to be. And we did care for each other, old 

'' Ay, and do:' 

*^ Well, compare that life I escaped from with this that I. lead 
now. Here I am, so to say, a free man, at perfect liberty 
within these small bounds, my wife for my companion, my table 
at my command, master on my own estate, the revenues of 
which I divide with you that you may be the baronet to the 
world, and keep up Foxwood. As fate has fallen, Karl, I could 
not be so happy anywhere as here." 

" I know : I know. But I fear the risk." 

" There must be some risk everywhere." 

*^ Answer me truly — as you would to your own heart, Adam. 
If by some miracle you could be transported to a far-off land, 
would you not feel safer there than here ? " 

" Yes. And for Rose's sake I would go if I could ; she is 
just as apprehensive here as you are. But I can't go. Wher| 


Smith says I must not attempt to get away, he is right. I feel 
that he is. The man's interest Hes in my safety, and I believe 
he thinks safety lies in my remaining here." 
\ "Just so," said Karl. "Smith is the stumbling-block." 

" Well, he holds the reins, you see. It is no use trying to 
fight against his opinion. Besides, I think he is right. How- 
ever that may be, I can't afford to come to a rupture with him. 
Good Heavens, Karl ! fancy his sending me back to Portland ! 
That will never be, however," added Sir Adam more calmly, 
" for I would not be taken alive. I or my capturers should fall." 

He put has hand inside his white waistcoat, and exhibited 
the end of a pistol. One he kept close to him night and day, 
always loaded, always ready. Karl's arguments failed him, one 
by one. As he was helpless to combat the decisions of his wife, 
so was he helpless here. 

And so the interview ended in nothing, just as others had 

A black cloud, threatening thunder, had come over the 
summer night when Karl went out. It did not seem to him 
half so dark as the trouble at his own heart. He would have 
given his life freely, to purchase security for his brother. 


The maze invaded. 

The previous night^s dark cloud had culminated in a thunder- 
storm, and the morning air felt fresh and cool ; but the blue 
sky was clear, the sun as bright as ever. 

Lucy came down with sad eyes and a pale face. Her night 
had been one of mental pain. She was wondering how much 
longer she could keep up this mask of cheerfulness— which she 
would especially have to wear that day ; and she knew that she 
could not have done it at all, then or at any other time, but for 
the very present help of God. Karl, waiting in the breakfast- 
room, turned to shake hands with her. But for their being 
alone, he would not have ventured on this eminently suggestive 


^' How are you to-day, Lucy ? " 

*' Ob, quite well, thank you. Did you hear the storm ?'^ 

*' Yes. It has cleared away some of the sultry heat. We 
shall have a lovely day." 

The Lloyds were expected from Basham. When at the 
flower-show the previous day, Lucy had remarked that some of 
the hothouse plants were not as fine as those at Foxwood : 
upon that, the general and one of his daughters had simul- 
taneously expressed a wish to see those at Foxwood. Lucy at 
once invited them, and it was arranged that they should spend 
the next day at the Court. She had told her husband of this 
whilst Captain Lamprey was present ; but it had not been 
alluded to afterwards. She spoke again now, whilst she and 
Karl were waiting breakfast for Miss Blake, who was at Matins 
at St. Jerome's. 

*^ I could not do less than ask them,'' she observed. '' I hope 
you are not vexed." 

" You did quite right, Lucy," he cheerfully answered. " I 
shall be glad to see them." 

*^I don't know how many will come. Perhaps all; except- 
ing Mrs. Lloyd, who never goes out anywhere. I hope Theresa 
will give up St. Jerome's for the rest of the day, and stay at 
home to help me to entertain them." 

Karl smiled. " To make sure of that, you should invite Mr. 

*' But you would not like that, would you ? " 

" No. I was only joking, Lucy. Here she is." 

The Lloyds had said they would come early, and Karl strolled 
out to meet the eleven-o'clock train, leaving his wife decorating 
her drawing-room with flowers. Unhappy though Lucy was, 
she was proud of her home, and was pleased that it should find 
admiration in the eyes of the world. 

As Karl was passing Clematis Cottage, he saw Mr. Smith 
seated at the open window, leisurely enjoying the freshened air, 
and smoking a cigar. Karl had been wanting to take a closer 
view of him ; and he turned in on the spur of the moment. To 
ask for something which he really required afforded an excuse. 
Mr. Smith rose up to receive him graciously, and threw his half- 
smoked cigar out at the window. 


" I think you have the plan of the outlying lands of the 
estate, Mr. Smith, where the new cottages are to .be built? 
Will you Spare it to me in the course of the day ? I will send 
Hewitt for it.'' 

^^ Certainly, Sir Karl; it is at your service. Won't you take a 
seat ? The breeze at this open window is quite refreshing." 

Karl sat down. Mr. Smith's green glasses lay on the table, 
and he could enjoy as clear a view of him as he pleased. The 
agent talked away, all unconscious, no doubt, that notes were 
being taken of his face and form. 

^*It is his own hair,'' mentally spoke Karl. ^'^Very dark 
brown,' they said : * almost black.' Just so. At the time of 
the escape Salter had neither whiskers nor beard nor moustache : 
the probability being, they thought, that he had now a full crop 
of all. Just so again. Eyebrows : thick and arched, Grimley 
said : these are not thick ; nor, what I should call, arched : 
perhaps there may be some way of manipulating eyebrows, and 
these have undergone the process. Eyes brown : yes. Face 
fresh and pleasant : yes. Voice and manners free and genial : 
yes. Age ? — there T can't make the two ends meet. I am 
sure this man's forty. Is it Salter, or is it not?" finally 
summed up Karl. " I don't know. I think it is : but I don't 

" Truefit, the farmer, spoke to me yesterday. Sir Karl," broke 
in Mr. Smith on his musings. " He was asking whether you 
and Lady Andinnian viewed this new farce on his grounds with 
approbation. That's what he called it — a farce. Meaning St. 

" I suppose he does not like it," observed Karl. 

" I fancy he does not really care about it himself, one way 
or the other. Sir Karl; in fact, he signified as much to me. 
But it seems his better-half, Mrs. Truefit, has taken a prejudice 
against it : calling the ceremonies * goings-on,' and * rubbish,' 
and ' scandal,' and all sorts of depreciatory terms. It is a pity 
Mr. Cattacomb can't confine himself to tolerable commonsense. 
The idea of their hanging that bell outside over the door, and 
pulling it everlastingly ! " 

" Yes," said Karl. *^ So much nonsense takes all solemnity 
away from religion." 


'^They are going to dress Tom Pepp in a white garment 
now, while he rings it, with a red cross down his back. It's 
that, I fancy, that has put Mrs. Truefit up. I told the farmer 
that I believed Sir Karl and Lady Andinnian did not favour 
the place : at least, that I had never seen them attend it.'' 

" And you never will," returned Karl, as he rose. 

There was nothing to stay for ; his observations were taken, 
and he departed, having to walk quickly to be in time at the 
station. Had he been easy in mind, the matters connected 
with St. Jerome's might have vexed him more than they did : 
but all minor annoyances were lost sight of in his one great care. 

The train came in, and the party arrived by it ; six of them. 
Captain Lloyd, who was at home on leave ; two Miss Lloyds ; 
a married sister and her husband, Mr. and Mrs. Panton, at 
present staying on a visit ; and the general. 

Karl had expressed pleasure at his wife's invitation ; perhaps 
had felt it ; but he could not foresee the unlucky contretemps 
the visit was to bring forth. To his unbounded astonishment, 
his inward confusion, no sooner had his guests entered Fox- 
wood Court, than they expressed a wish to see the place called 
The Maze, and requested Sir Karl to conduct them to it. 

^* I was telling Panton about The Maze last night — talking of 
the Court and its surroundings," observed the general. 
" Panton does not believe it possible that any one could lose 
himself in any maze whatever : so I promised him he should 
have a try at it. You will afford us the opportunity of seeing 
it, Sir Karl." 

" I — I am not sure," stammered Karl, utterly taken back, 
while his wife's face flushed a burning red. " I hardly think it 
is in my power, general. The lady who inhabits it desires to 
keep herself so very quiet, that I should not feel justified in 
intruding upon her. She is not in strong health, I believe." 

'' But we would not think of disturbing the lady," they all 
exclaimed together. ^^ We only wish to see the maze, Sir Karl ; 
DT^t the house. What's her name ? " 

*^ Grey." 

'* Well, we shall not hurt her. Does she live there alone?" 

'* Whilst her husband is abroad. I am sure she will not 
choose to be intruded upon." 


Sir Karl might as well have talked to the winds. All opposed 
him. Of course there was no suspicion that he had any personal 
objection to the visit ; only that he wished to respect the 
scruples of his lady-tenant. At length, the general declared 
he would go over to Mrs. Grey, ask to see her, and personally 
prefer the request. Poor Karl was at his wits' end. He saw 
that he should not be able to stem the storm — for he dared not 
be resolute in the denial, so fearful was he always of arousing 
any suspicion of there being a mystery in the place — and he 
was fain to yield. He would take them over, he said ; but not 
before he had sent a note to say that they were coming. This 
he insisted on ; it would be only common politeness, he urged ; 
and they all agreed with him. 

Hastily writing a few words to Mrs. Grey in his own room, 
he called Hewitt to take the note over, and gave him at the 
same time a private message for Ann Hopley. Of course 
Karl's object was to warn his brother to keep out of sight — and 
Mrs. Grey also. Hewitt looked more alarmed than his master. 

" To think of their wanting to go over there ! " he exclaimed 
in a tone of covert fear. 

" It can't be helped, Hewitt. Go." 

A few minutes, and Hewitt came back with a message, which 
he delivered to his master in pubhc. Mrs. Grey's compliments 
to Sir Karl Andinnian, and he was at liberty to bring his 
friends within her gates if he pleased. So they all started; 
Lucy with them. 

Lucy with them ! 

The ladies had assumed it to be so much a matter of course 
that their hostess should accompany them, that Lucy, timid in 
her self-consciousness, saw not her way to making any excuse. 
And it might be that, down deep in her woman's frail heart, 
there was a longing to see the inside of that place which con- 
tained her rival. In the midst of her indecision she glanced 
at Karl and hesitated. But he saw not the look or the hesita- 
tion : for all the sign he gave, she was as welcome to go to the 
place as these guests were. It is true that Miss Blake fixed 
her eyes upon her, and Lucy coloured under it : but perhaps 
the very fact only served to speed her on the way. 

The party started, passing out at the grand gates of Fox- 


wood. Between that spot and The Maze, short though it was, 
they encountered Mr. Cattacomb. Miss Blake took upon her- 
self to introduce him, and to ask him to accompany them, saying 
they were going to see that renowned show-place. The Maze. 

" I did not know we had a show-place in the neighbour- 
hood," drawled Mr. Cattacomb in his affectation. 

" Neither have we," curtly rejoined Sir Karl, who would 
willingly have pitched Mr. Cattacomb a mile elsewhere, but 
did not see an excuse for doing it. "The Maze was never 
made a show-place yet. Miss Blake. I feel anything but 
comfortable at intruding there to-day, I assure you. Between 
my wish to gratify my friends, and my fear that it may be 
objectionable to the lady occupying The Maze, I am in a 
blissful state of uncertainty," he added in a laughing kind of 
way, for the public benefit, fearing he might have spoken too 
pointedly and shown that he was really ill at ease. 

'^Sir Karl is ultra-sensitive," remarked Miss Blake — and a 
keen observer might have fancied there was some sarcasm in 
her tone. 

Karl rang the bell — which might be heard far and wide; 
and Ann Hopley appeared, the key of the gate in her hand. 
She curtsied to the company as she admitted them. 

" My mistress desires me to say, Sir Karl, that she hopes 
the gentlepeople will see all they wish to see," cried the 
woman aloud, addressing the others as much as she did Sir 
Karl. *' Mrs. Grey begs they will pardon her not appearing to 
welcome them, but she is not well to-day, and has to keep her 

" Mrs. Grey is very kind," returned Sir Karl. " We shall be 
cautious not to disturb her." 

They filed of their own accord into the maze. The old 
trees had not been so beset with gay tongues and laughter for 
many a day. One ran here, another there ; they were like 
school boys and girls out for a holiday. Ann Hopley was 
about to follow them in when the gate-bell once more sounded, 
and she turned back to open it. Karl, never at rest — who 
could be so, knowing what he knew — looked after her while he 
talked with his friends; and he saw that the visitor was a 


His heart leaped into his mouth. Careless, in the moment's 
terror, of what might be thought of him, he broke off in the 
middle of a sentence to the general, and returned to the gate. 
His face was never very rosy, but every vestige of colour had 
forsaken it now. At a more collected moment, he would have 
remembered that it was not in that way his brother would be 
sought out — in the person of one solitary, unarmed policeman 
— but fear does not wait to think of probability : as Rose had 
observed to him only the previous evening. Worse than all, 
the rest came flocking to the gate after him. 

^'Grey, ain't it?" the policeman was saying to Ann Hopley. 
He had a paper in his hand and a pencil. 

" Mrs. Grey," replied the servant. 

" Mrs. Grey. There ain't no husband, I think ? " 


" What's her Chris'en name ? " 

A warning glance from Sir Karl's eyes, cautioning Ann 
Hopley to be on her guard. In truth it was not needed : the 
woman was caution itself, and had her wits at hand always. 
Karl saw what it was — some parish paper about to be left — and 
was recovering his equanimity. 

*^ My mistress's Christian name ? Mary." 

*^Mrs. Mary Grey," repeated the policeman, writing down 
the name on the paper. " You'll please to give it her," he 
added, handing the paper in. " It have got to be attended to." 

" All tax-papers for Mrs. Grey must come to Foxwood 
Court," interposed Sir Karl. *^Mrs. Grey takes the house 
furnished, and has nothing to do with the taxes." 

" Beg pardon. Sir Karl, but that there's a voting-paper for a 
poor-law guardian," said the man, touching his hat. 

^'Oh, a voting-paper. Let it go in, then," concluded Sir 
Karl. Mrs. Grey had no more to do with voting than she had 
with taxes ; but Sir Karl let it pass. 

They were in the maze again : Ann Hopley having wtnmd 
herself out of sight with the paper. Mr. Panton, the unbeliever, 
wound himself m and out of the trees and about the paths: 
but the voices always guided him back again. 

" What a dehghtful place. Sir Karl ! " cried Mrs. Panton. 
^' Quite like a Fair Rosamond's Bower." 


Sir Karl laughed in reply. And — as Miss Blake noticed — 
there was not a trace of shame in his face. Lucy's colour, 
though, rose painfully. 

'^ Let me see ! it was a silken thread, was it not, that guided 
Queen Eleanor to her rival?" continued Mrs. Panton. "A 
cruel woman ! I wonder whether she carried the bowl of 
poison in her hand ? '' 

*'I wonder if the woman who destroyed the queen's happi- 
ness had any forewarning in her dreams of the fate in store 
for her ? " retorted Miss Blake, sharply — for she was thinking 
of another case, very near to her, that she judged to be 
analogous to Fair Rosamond's. " For her punishment it is to 
be hoped she had." 

" Oh, but you know she was so lovely, poor thing ! One 
can only pity her ; can we. Lady Andinnian ? " 

"I know nothing about it," spoke Lucy, in so irritable a 
tone that Karl turned to look at her. 

^' My opinion is, that the king should have taken half the 
bowl," said Miss Blake. ''That would have been even justice, 
Mrs. Panton." 

'' Well, well, judge it as you will. Fair Rosamond was very 
beautiful ; and her fate was shocking. Of course the queen 
was naturally incensed ; and the crime of poisoning in those 
days was, I suppose, looked upon as no crime at all. I have 
always wished the queen had been lost in the maze and the 
poison spilt." 

" Suppose we get lost in this one ! " 

It was Miss Lloyd who spoke, hurriedly and somewhat 
anxiously. It brought most of them around her. 

" There is no danger here, is there ? Sir Karl, you know 
the way out, I suppose ? " 

Karl evaded the question. '' If the worst come to the worst, 
we can shout," he observed. 

" But don' it you know the clue ? Is there not a clue ? There 
must be one." 

''I see nothing of the kind," returned Karl. ''You forget 
that I am almost a stranger to the neighbourhood. We shall 
be all right. Don't fear." 

How Lucy despised him for his deceit ! She felt that he 


must have the clue. Why else need he let himself within the 
gate with his key — at least, with any purpose of finding his way 
further in after it ? Miss Blake caught her eye ; and Lucy 
turned away, sick at heart, from the compassion Miss Blake's 
glance wore for her." 

Sir Karl's *^ Don't fear" had been reassuring, and they dis- 
persed about the maze and lost themselves in it, very much as 
Miss Blake had once done. Mr. Cattacomb kept asking 
questions about the mistress of The Maze : why she lived there 
alone? where her husband was? for all of which Sir Karl 
could have struck him. He^ Karl, would have contrived to 
keep them from the boundaries near the house : but they were 
as nine to one, and went whither they would : and, as had been 
Miss Blake's case, they came within view of it at last. 

" What a pretty place ! " was the involuntary exclamation 
from more than one of them. 

It did look pretty : pretty and very cheerful. The windows 
of the house were open ; the porch door was fastened back, as 
if to invite entrance. Not a sign or symptom existed of there 
being any cause for concealment. 

So far good, and Karl felt satisfied. But, as his eyes went 
ranging far and wide, there was no doubt that he somewhere or 
other caught sight of his imprudent brother ; and he groaned 
in spirit. 

^^ Adam is surely mad," was his mental cry. 

Ann Hopley, who had probably been waiting about, stepped 
up at this moment, and asked with much civility if they would 
like to walk indoors and rest. Sir Karl, looking at his friends, 
as if for acquiescence in his denial, declined. " We have no 
right to intrude," he whispered : and the general said so too. 

" This might really do for a Rosamond's Bower ! " cried 
Mrs. Panton. " It is a charming place." 

The lawn was level and well kept ; the flowers and shrubs sur- 
rounding it were fragrant and blooming. Mounted on a ladder, 
naiUng some branches against a wall that probably belonged 
to a tool-house, was the toothless old gardener, his knees 
swollen and bent, his white smock-frock rolled up round him. 

"That's the gardener at his work, I suppose?" observed the 
general, whose eyes were dim. 


" Yes, that's Hopley," said Karl. 

"What d'ye call his name, Sir Karl?" 

"Hopley. He is the woman's husband." 

^* I had a servant once of that name when I was quartered 
at Malta. A good servant he was, too." 

"The man looks ill," remarked Mrs. Panton. 

" I fancy he's subject to rheumatism," said Karl. " How is 
your husband ? " he inquired of Ann Hopley. 

" Pretty middling, sir, thank you," she answered. " He is 
getting in years, you see, gentlefolks, and is not as strong as he 

" Will you be so good as to precede us through the maze 
and let us out," said Karl to her. ^'I think it is time we 
went," he added to the others. "We have seen all there is to 

Ann Hopley, key in hand, went winding through the maze, 
in and out of the numberless paths. It seemed to those follow- 
ing her that they only went round and round — just as it had 
seemed to Miss Blake that former day ; and it took some time 
to get through it. The Reverend Mr. Cattacomb called it " a 

She was crafty, that faithful woman. Just as she had led 
Miss Blake a needlessly roundabout way, so she led them now. 
Had she taken them directly through, who knew but they 
might have caught some inkling of the clue ? Whilst opening 
the gate, General Lloyd would have put half-a-crown into her 
hand. She would not take it. 

" I would rather not, sir ; I've done nothing to merit it. 
Our mistress pays us both well. Thank you, sir, all the same." 

" A respectable, honest servant, that," remarked the general^ 
slipping the money into his pocket again. 

Crossing the road from The Maze, the party came right in 
view of Clematis Cottage and Mr. Smith, who was leaning over 
the gate of it, and staring with all his might. He raised his 
hat to the ladies generally, and then accosted Sir Karl, saying 
he had taken the plan asked for, to the Court. 

"Thank you," replied Karl. 

" Who is that man ? " cried Captain Lloyd, with some energy, 
as they went on. "I am sure I know him." 


"His name's Smith/' replied Karl. *^Heis a sort of agent 
on my estate." 

" Smith— Smith ! I don't recollect the name. His face is 
quite familiar to me, though. Where can I have seen it ? " 

Karl longed in his heart to ask whether the face had ever 
belonged to the name of Salter ; but he did not dare. There 
had been a peculiar expression in Mr. Smith's eyes as he spoke 
to him just now, which Karl had read rightly — he was sure 
Smith wanted to speak to him privately. So, after the rest 
had entered the home gates, he turned back. The agent had 
not stirred from his place. 

"What have those people been doing there, Sir Karl?" he 
asked, with a peremptory action of his hand towards The Maze. 

Karl explained. He did not dare do otherwise. Explained 
in full. 

" Curious fools ! " cried the man angrily. " Well, no harm 
seems to have been done, sir. Seeing you all come out of the 
gate, I could not believe my eyes, or imagine what was up." 

^'I fancied you wished to speak to me, Mr. Smith." 

^' And so I do. Sir Karl. The letters were late this morning 
— did you know it? They've only just been dehvered. Some 
accident, I suppose." 

"I only know that none came to Foxwood Court this 

'^ Just so. Well, Sir Karl, I've had one ; ten minutes ago. 
I wrote to make inquiries about that paragraph in the news- 
paper, and this letter was the answer to mine. It is as I 
thought. There's nothing known or suspected at all at head- 
quarters; neither at Scotland Yard nor Portland Island. It 
was the work of a penny-a-liner, hang him ! — ^just an invention, 
and nothing else." 

" To whom did you write ? " 

" Well, that's my business, and I cannot tell you. But you 
may rely upon what I say, Sir Karl, and set your mind at rest. 
I thought you'd like to know this, sir, as soon as possible." 

^* Thank you," replied Karl. 

He went back to his guests, his brain busy. Was this true, 
that Smith said ? Who then was Smith that he could procure 
this information ? Or, was it that Smith was saying it with a 
purpose ? 




The buff-coloured blinds were down before Mr. Burtenshaw's 
windows in the Euston Road, keeping out the glare of the 
afternoon sun, and throwing an unwholesome sort of tint over 
the rooms. In one of them, the front room on the first floor, 
sat the detective himself. It was indeed a sort of office as well 
as a sitting-room : papers strewed the table ; pigeon-holes and 
shelves, all filled, were ranged along the walls. 

Mr. Burtenshaw had a complicated case in hand at that 
time. Some fresh information had just come in by a private 
letter, and he w^as giving the best attention of his clear mind to 
it : his head bent over the table ; his hands resting on the 
papers immediately before him. Apparently he arrived at some 
conclusion : for he nodded twice and then began to fold the 
papers together. 

The servant-maid, with the fiaunty cap on her head, entered 
the room, and said to her master that a gentleman had called 
and requested to see him. 
, ''Who is it?" asked Mr. Burtenshaw. 

*'He gave no name, sir. It's the same gentleman who 
called two or three times in one day some time ago : the last 
time late at night. Very nice-looking, sir ; might be known 
for a gentleman a mile off." 

The detective carried his thoughts back, and remembered. 
"You can show him up," he said. "Or— stay, Harriet," he 
suddenly added, as the girl was leaving the room. " Go down 
first of all and ask the gentleman his name." 

She went as desired ; and came up again. 

" The gentleman says, sir, that you don't know him by name, 
but his solicitors are Messrs. Plunkett and Plunkett." 

"Ay. Show him up," said Mr. Burtenshaw. "He has a 
motive for withholding his name," mentally added the detective. 

The reader need not be told that it was Karl Andinnian who 
entered. The object of his visit was to gain, if possible, some 
further information respecting Philip Salter. 


t)ay by day and week by week, as the days and weeks went 
on, had proved to Karl Andinnian that his brother's stay at 
The Maze was growing more full of risk. Karl and Mrs. Grey, 
conversing on the matter as opportunity occurred, had set it 
down as almost a certainty that Smith was no other than 
Salter. She felt sure of it. Karl very nearly so. And he was 
persuaded that, once Smith's influence could be removed, 
Adam might get safely away. 

The question ever agitating Karl's brain, in the midnight 
watches, in broad daylight, was — what could he do in the 
matter ? — how proceed in it at all with perfect security ? The 
first thing of course was to ascertain that the man was Salter ; 
the next to make a bargain with him : '' You leave my brother 
free, and I will leave you free." For it was by no means his 
intention to deliver up Salter to justice. Karl had reaHzed too 
keenly the distress and horror that must be the portion of a 
poor fugitive, hiding from the law, to denounce the worst 
criminal living. 

The difficulty lay entirely in the first step — the identification 
of Smith with Salter. How could he ascertain it? He did 
not know. He could not see any means by which it might be 
accomplished with safety. Grimley knew Salter — as in fact did 
several of Grimley's brotherhood — but, if he once brought 
Grimley within a bird's-eye view of Smith (Smith proving 
Salter) Grimley would at once lay his grasp upon him. All 
would probably be over then : for the chances were that Salter 
in revenge would point his finger to The Maze, and say, " There 
lives a greater criminal than I ; the convict, Adam Andinnian." 

The reader must see the difficulty and the danger of the 
case. Karl dared not bring Grimley or any other of the police 
in contact with Smith ; he dared not give them a clue as to 
where he might be found : and he had to fall back upon the 
uncertain and unsatisfactory step of endeavouring to prove the 
identity himself 

' " If I could only get to know Burtenshaw's reason for think- 
ing Salter was in England," he exclaimed to himself over and 
over again, " perhaps it might help me. Suppose I were to 
ask Burtenshaw again — and press it on him ? Something might 
come of it. After all, he could only refuse me." 

Within the Maze, 17 


Just as Karl, after much painful deliberation, had determined 
to do this, there arrived at Foxwood a summons for his wife. 
Colonel Cleeve was attacked with sudden illness. In the first 
alarm of it, Mrs. Cleeve feared it might prove fatal, and sent 
for Lucy. Karl took her to Winchester and left her, and at 
once took up his own abode in London. The Court had none 
too much attraction for him as matters stood, and he did not 
care to be left to entertain Miss Blake. So long as his wife 
stayed away from it, he also meant to stay away. 

The following afternoon saw him at the detective's. Mr. 
Burtenshaw had thought his unknown visitor looking ill before : 
he looked worse now. " A delicate man with some great care 
upon him,'' summed up the officer to himself. 

Karl, opening his business, led up to the question he had 
come to ask. Would Mr. Burtenshaw confide to him his reason 
for supposing Philip Salter to be still in England ? At first Mr. 
Burtenshaw said No ; it could not, he imagined, concern him 
or any one else to hear it. Karl pleaded, and pleaded earnestly. 

" Whatever you say shall be kept strictly sacred," he urged. 
*^ It cannot harm any one. I have a powerful motive for 
asking it." 

" And a painful one, too,'^ thought the detective. Karl was 
leaning forward in his chair, his pale face slightly flushed with 
emotion, his beautiful grey eyes full of eager entreaty, a strange 
sadness in their depths. 

^* Will you impart to me, sir, your motive for wishing to know 

"No, I cannot," said Karl, " I wish I could ; but I cannot.'^ 

'^ I fancy that you must know Salter's retreat, sir — or think 
you know it : and you want to be assured it is he before you 
denounce him," spoke the detective, hazarding a shrewd guess. 

Karl raised his hand to enforce what he said, speaking 
solemnly. " Were I able to put my finger this moment upon 
Salter, I would not denounce him. Nothing would induce me 
to do so. You may believe me when I say that, in asking for 
this information, I intend no harm to him." 

The detective saw how true were the words. There was 
something in Karl Andinnian strangely attractive, and he began 
to waven 


^'It is not of very much consequence whether 1 give you the 
information or whether I withhold it/' he acknowledged, giving 
way. '^ The fact is this : one of our men who knew Salter^ 
thought he saw him some three or four months ago. He, our 
man, was on the Great Western line, going to Bath; on passing 
a station where they did not stop, he saw (or thought he saw) 
Salter, standing there. He is a cool-judging, keen-sighted 
officer, and I do not myself think he could have been mistaken. 
We followed up the scent at once, but nothing has come of it. 
Salter, if it was he, had made good his escape. '^ 

Karl made no answer : he was considering. Three or four 
months ago ? That was about the time, he fancied, that Smith 
took up his abode at Foxwood. Before that, he might have 
been all over England, for anything Karl could tell. 

" Just before that,'' resumed the detective, *^ another of the 
men struck up a cock-and-bull story that Salter was living in 
Aberdeen. I forget the precise reason he had for asserting it. 
We instituted inquiries : but, like the latter tale, they resulted 
in nothing. As yet, we have no certain clue to Salter." 

"That is all you know?" asked Karl. 

" Every word. Has the information helped you ? " 

"Not in the least degree." 

There was nothing else for Karl to wait for. His visit had 
been a fruitless one. "I should have liked to see Grimley 
once more," he said as he rose. " Is he in town ? " 

" Grimley is in the house now. At least, he ought to be. 
He is engaged in a case under me, and was to be here at three 
o'clock for instructions. Will you see him ? " 

"If you please." 

It had occurred to Karl more than once that he should like 
to describe Smith accurately to Grimley, and ask whether the 
description tallied with Salter's. He could do it without afford- 
ing any clue to Smith or his locality. 

Mr. Burtenshaw rang, and told the maid to send up Grimley, 
if he had arrived. In obedience to this, Grimley, in his official 
clothes, appeared, and another officer with him. 

" Oh, I don't want you just yet, Watts," said Mr. Burtenshaw. 
"Wait downstairs." 

" Very well, sir," replied the man. " I may as well give you 


this, though/' he added, crossing the room and placing a small 
box, the size of a five-shilling piece, on the table. Mr. Burten- 
shaw looked at it curiously, and then slipped it into the drawer 
at his left hand. 

" From Jacob, I suppose ? '' 

" Yes, sir.'' 

The man left the room. Karl, after a few preliminary words 
with Grimley, gave an elaborate and close description of Smith's 
figure and features. " Is it like Salter ? " he asked. 

"If it isn't him, sir, it's his twin brother," was Grimley's 
emphatic answer. *^ As to his looking forty, it is only to be 
expected. Nothing ages a man like living a life of fear." 

Karl remembered how Adam had aged and was ageing, and 
silently acquiesced. He began to think he saw his way some- 
what more clearly ; the man at Foxwood was certainly Salter. 
Handing over a gratuity to Grimley, and taking leave of Mr. 
Burtenshaw, he departed, leaving the other two talking of him. 

" He has dropped upon Salter," remarked Grimley. 

"Yes," said Mr. Burtenshaw. "But he does not intend to 
deliver him up." 

" No ! " cried the other in amazement " Why not, sir ? " 

" I don't know," said Mr. Burtenshaw. " He said he had 
no intention of the kind — and I am sure he has not. It seemed 
to me to be rather the contrary — that he wants to screen him." 

" Then he told you, sir, that he had found Salter ? " 

" No, he did not. We were speaking on supposition.'' 

''Who is this gentleman, sir?" 

" I don't know who he is. He keeps his name from me." 

Mr. Grimley felt anything but satisfied with the present 
aspect of the affair. What right had this stranger, who wanted 
to know all about Salter, to refuse to denounce him ? Once 
more he asked Mr. Burtenshaw if he did not know who he was, 
but the latter repeated his denial. During the discussion, the 
man Watts entered the room again, and heard what passed. 
He looked at Mr. Burtenshaw. 

" Are you speaking of the gentleman just gone out, sir ? I 
know him." 

*' Why, who is he?" asked Mr. Burtenshaw, who had taken 
out the little box again, and was opening it. 


'^ Sir Karl Andinnian." 

" Nonsense ! '' exclaimed the detective, aroused to interest. 
For Sir Karl Andinnian, brother to the criminal who had made 
so much stir in the world, was a noted name in the force. 

^' It is," said Watts. *' I knew him the minute I came in. I 
was present at the trial in Northampton, sir, when his brother 
was condemned to death ; this gentleman sat all day at the 
solicitors' table. I had gone down there on that business of 

" No wonder he has a sad look," thought the detective. 
^^ Adam Andinnian's was a mournful case, and his death was 
mournful. But w^hat interest can Sir Karl have in Salter?'* 

There was one, at least, who determined to ascertain, if 
possible, what that interest was — and that was Mr. Policeman 
Grimley. A shrewd man by nature, a very shrewd one by 
experience, he drew his own deductions — and they were any- 
thing but favourable to the future security of some of the 
inhabitants of Foxwood. Could Karl Andinnian have seen 
what his morning's work had done for him, he would have 
been ready to sit in sackcloth and ashes, after the manner of 
the mourners of old. 

" Sir Karl's living at Foxwood Court with his young wife," 
ran Mr. Grimley's thoughts : " I know that much. Wherever 
this Salter is, it's not far from him, I'll lay. Hid in Foxwood, 
and no mistake ! I'll get him unearthed if it costs me my 
place. Let's see ; how shall I set about it ? " 

As a preliminary step, he gently sounded Mr. Burtenshaw ; 
but found he could get no help from him : it was not the 
detective's habit to stir in any matter without orders. Mr. 
Grimley then slept a night upon it, and in the morning had 
resolved to strike a bold stroke. Obtaining a private interview 
with one who was high in the force at Scotland Yard, he 
denounced Salter, telUng of Sir Karl Andinnian's visits to Bur- 
tenshaw, and their purport. 

" Salter is in hiding at Foxwood, or somewhere in its neigh- 
bourhood, sir, as sure as my name's Dick Grimley," he said. 
** I want him took. I don't care about the reward — and 
perhaps it would not be given to me in any case, seeing it was 
ine that let the fellow go — but I wq.nt hirri took. IJe's a crafty 


fox, sir, mark you, though ; and it will have to be gone about 

*^If Salter be retaken through this declaration of yours, 
Grimley, I dare say you'll get some of the reward," was the 
consoling answer. '^ Who knows the man ? It will not do for 
you to go down." 

" No, it wouldn't," acquiesced Grimley. " He knows me ; 
and, once he caught sight of me, he'd make off like a rat out 
of a sinking ship. Besides, sir, I couldn't leave that other 
thing Mr. Burtenshaw has in hand." 

''Well, who knows Salter, I ask?" 

'' Tatton does, sir ; knows him as well as I do ; but Salter 
does not know Tatton. Tatton would be the best man for it 
too. Burtenshaw himself can't manage a case as Tatton does 
when it comes to personal acting." 

There was a little more conversation, and then Grimley 
withdrew, and Tatton was sent for. The grass could not be 
allowed to grow under their feet in the attempt to retake that 
coveted prize, Philip Salter. 

This Tatton had begun life as an ordinary policeman : but 
his talents had raised him. He was smart in appearance and 
manner, had received a fairly good education, conversed well 
on the topics of the day, could adapt himself to any society he 
might happen to be in, from that of a gentleman to a shoe- 
black, and was found to possess the rare prudence, the certain 
tact, necessary to undertake the conduct of delicate cases and 
bring them to a successful conclusion. Grimley was correct, 
in judging that Tatton would be the right man to put on the 
track of Philip Salter. 



The sun was drawing towards the west, and the summer after- 
noon was waning, for the days were not so long as they had 
been a month or two ago, when a gentleman, slight and rather 


short, with light eyes, fair curly hair, and about thirty years of 
age, alighted from the London train at Foxwood Station. He 
had a black bag in his hand and a portmanteau in the van, and 
inquired of the porter the way to Foxwood. 

^' Do you mean Foxwood proper, sir ; or Foxwood, Sir Karl 
Andinnian's place ? " returned the porter. 

'' Foxwood proper, I suppose. It is a village, is it not ? " 

^' Yes, sir. Go down the road to the left, then take the first 
turning on your right, and it will bring you into Foxwood.'' 

*' Thank you," said the gentleman, and slipped a small silver 
coin into the porter's hand. He knew, nobody better, the 
value of a silver key : and the chances were that he might 
shortly get gossiping with this station-porter about the neigh- 
bourhood and its politics. 

Bag in hand, and leaving his portmanteau at the station, he 
speedily found himself in the heart of Foxwood. Casting his 
eyes about on this side and that, they settled on Paradise Row, 
on which the sun was shining, and on a white embossed card 
hanging in the first-floor window of the middle house, which 
card had on it, in large letters, '' Apartments furnished." At 
the open entrance-door of the same house stood a widow 
woman, in a clean cap and smart black silk apron. Mrs. 
Jinks was en grande toilette that afternoon. 

" It looks likely," said the stranger to himself. " Madam 
there will talk her tongue tired, I see, once prompted." And 
going up to the door, he politely took off his hat as he might 
to a duchess. 

" You have apartments to let, I think, madam ? " 

" Good gracious ! " cried the Widow Jinks, taken by surprise 
— for she was only looking out for the mufiin-boy, and the 
slanting sunbeams were dazzling her eyes, so that she had not 
observed the traveller. *^ I beg pardon, sir ; apartments, did 
you say? Yes, sir, I've got my drawing-room just emptied." 

It happened that an elderly lady from Basham and her 
granddaughters had been lodging there for a month, the young 
ladies being ardent disciples of Mr. Cattacomb ; but they had 
now left, and the drawing-room was ready to be let again. 
Mrs. Jinks went on to explain this, rather volubly. 

" I will go up and look at it, if you please " said the stranger. 


The widow ushered him along the passage towards the stairs, 
treading softly as she passed the parlour-door. 

" I've got a reverend gent lodging in there," she said ; 
^^ minister of the new church, St. Jerome's. He has a meeting 
every Thursday evening, for Scripture reading, or something of 
that sort — exercises, I think they call it. This is Thursday, 
and they be all expected. But he wants his tea first, and that 
there muffin-boy's not round yet The reverend gent have 
dropped asleep on three chairs in his shirt-sleeves, while he 
waits for it. This is the drawing-room, sir." 

The stranger liked the drawing-room very much ; the sun 
made it cheerful, he said ; and he liked the bedroom behind it. 
Mrs. Jinks rather hesitated at letting the two rooms alone. 
She generally let the bedrooms at the top of the house with 

" How long shall you be likely to stay, sir ? " questioned she. 

" I do not know. It may be a week, it may be a month, it 
may be more. I am seeking country air and rest to re-estabUsh 
my health, ma'am, and want a quiet place to read in. I shall 
not give you much trouble." 

Mrs. Jinks agreed to let him have the rooms at last, demand- 
ing a few shillings over the usual terms for the two : a bird in 
the hand, she thought, was worth two in the bush. Next she 
asked for references. 

"I cannot refer you to anyone here," he said, ^^for I don't 
know a soul in the place, and not a soul in it knows me. I will 
pay you every week in advance ; and that I presume will do as 
well as references." 

He laid down the sum agreed upon and a sovereign beside 
it. " You will be so good as to get in for me a few things, 
Mrs. Jinks. I should like to have some tea first of all, if 
convenient, and one of those muffins you spoke of. Well 
buttered, if you please." 

*' Yes, sir; certainly, sir. We get muffins at Foxwood all the 
year round, sir, on account of there being company in the place 
at summer time : in other towns, Basham, for instance, they are 
only made in winter. Buttered muffins and cress, sir, is un- 
commonly good together." 

*^ Are they ? I'll have some cress too " 


Telling her, as well as he could remember, what articles he 
should want besides butter and muffins, and bidding her add 
anything else that she thought he might require, he picked up 
his black bag to take it into the bedroom. Mrs. Jinks in her 
politeness begged him to let her take it, but he said certainly 

" Is it all the luggage youVe got, sir, this ? '^ 

" My portmanteau is at the station. I could not order it on 
until I knew where I should be; or, in fact, whether I should 
stay at Foxwood at all. Had I not found lodgings to my mind, 
ma'am, I might have gone somewhere else.'' 

" Foxwood's the loveliest, healthiest spot you can find, sir," 
cried the widow, eagerly. ^^ Sweet walks about it, there is." 

'^So I was told by my medical man. One wants nice rural 
walks, Mrs. Jinks, after reading hard." 

*'So one does, sir. You are reading up for college, I sup- 
pose ? I had a young gent here once from Oxford. He got 
plucked, too, afterwards. There's the muffin-boy ! " added 
Mrs. Jinks, in delight, as a fierce ring at the bell and the 
muffin call were heard beneath. ^^ Oh, I beg pardon, sir, what 
name ? " 

The gentleman, who had his head and hands just then in his 
bag, merely responded that he was a stranger. Mrs. Jinks, in 
the hurry to be gone, and confused with the ring and the call 
below, caught up the answer as '' Strange." 

" A Mr. Strange," she said to herself, going down with the 
money in her hand. " And one of the nicest gents I've ever 
come across. ' Put plenty o' butter,' says he. He ain't one 
as'll look sharp after every crumb, as too many of 'em does, 
and say where's the rest of this, that it don't come up, and 
Where's the remainder of that." 

' Mrs. Jinks had a helpmate when she was what she con- 
sidered in " full let ; " a youn^ damsel of fourteen, who wore 
her hair in a pink net. Sending the girl flying to the general 
shop for various things, she Segan to toast the muffins ; and 
tea was speedily served in l )th rooms. She took in the 
clergyman's first. Mr. Cattacomb was asleep on the three 
chairs, in his shirt-sleeves. He was beginning to find his work 
gomewhat hard, What with the duties in the church, the 


services, and sermons, and confessions, and the duties out of 
church connected with little boys and girls, and with those 
anxious Christians who never left him alone, the young ladies, 
Mr. Cattacomb was often considerably fatigued ; and it was 
under consideration whether his former coadjutor, the Reverend 
Damon Puff, should not be summoned to assist him. 

"Here's your tea, sir/' said Mrs. Jinks, ^^and a beautiful 
hot muffin. I couldn't get it up afore, for the muffin-boy 
was late." 

^^My tea, is it, Mrs. Jinks?" rephed Mr. Cattacomb, slowly 
rising. " Thank you ; I am dead tired." 

And, perhaps in consequence of the fatigue, or that Mrs. 
Jinks was not worth any display, it might have been observed 
that the affectation, so characteristic of the reverend gentleman 
when in society, had entirely disappeared now. Indeed, it 
seemed at this undress moment that Mr. Cattacomb was a 
pleasant, simple-mannered man. 

" I've been in luck, this afternoon, sir, and have let my 
drawing-room floor," continued the widow, as she settled the 
tea-tray before him. " It's a Mr. Strange, sir, that's took it ; a 
gent reading for Oxford, and out of health. His doctor have 
ordered him into the country for change, and told him he'd 
find quiet air and nice walks at Foxwood. You may hear his 
boots walking about overhead, sir. He seems to be as nice 
and liberal a gent as ever I had to do with." 

^'Glad to hear it," said Mr. Cattacomb, vigorously attacking 
his muffin. " We shall want more chairs here presently, you 
know, Mrs. Jinks." 

The tea-tray had scarcely disappeared, and Mr. Cattacomb 
put on his coat and his fascinating company manners, before 
the company began to arrive. On these Thursday evenings 
Mr. Cattacomb gave at his own home a private lecture, 
descriptive of some of the plac ,3 mentioned in holy Scripture. 
The lectures were attended '.y all his flock at St. Jerome's and 
by several young ladies from E oham. Of course it necessi- 
tated a great many seats ; and che new lodger above was yet at 
his tea, when Mrs. Jinks appeared, her face redder than usual 
with running about, and begged the loan of " Mr. Strange's " 
chairs, explaining what they were wanted for. 


'^ Oh, certainly : take them all, Mrs. Jinks," replied he, in 
the most accommodating manner possible. " I can sit upon 
the table." 

Mrs. Jinks considerately left him one, however, and went 
down with the rest. He found out she had taken up the 
notion that his name was " Strange," and laughed a little. 

" Some misunderstanding, I suppose, on her part, when I 
said I was a stranger," thought he. ^^All right; I'll not con- 
tradict it." 

Whilst the bumping and thumping went on, caused by the 
progress of the chairs down from the chambers and up from 
the kitchen, and the knocker and the bell kept up a perpetual 
duet, Mr. Strange (we will call him so at present ourselves) 
put on his hat to go round and order his portmanteau to be 
sent from the station. As he passed the parlour-door it stood 
open ; no one was looking his way ; he had a good view of the 
interior, and took-in the scene and the details with his observant 
eyes. A comfortable room, containing a dozen or two of 
charming and chattering ladies, surrounded by a perfect epitome 
of tasty and luxurious objects that had been worked by fair 
fingers. Cushions, anti-macassars, slippers, scrolls, drawings 
enshrined in leather frames, ornamental mats by the dozen, 
cosies for tea-pots, lamp tops and stands flowers in wax under 
shades, sweeter flowers from hothouses in water, and other 
things too numerous to mention. 

" A man beset, that clergyman," thought Mr. Strange, with 
a silent laugh, as he bent his steps towards the railway. " He 
should get married and stop it. Perhaps he likes it, though : 
some of them do who have more vanity than brains." 

So he ordered his portmanteau to No. 5, Paradise Row, 
contriving to leave the same impression at the station that he 
had given Mrs. Jinks — a reading man in search of quiet and 

Mrs. Jinks presided at the arrival of the portmanteau, and 
saw some books taken out of it in the drawing-room. Whilst 
her lodger's back was turned, she took the liberty of peeping 
into one or two of them ; and finding their language was what 
she could not read, supposed it to be Greek or Latin. Before 
the night was over^ all Paradise Row, upwards and downwards, 


had been regaled with the news of her new lodger, and the 
particulars concerning his affairs. 

"A scholar-gent by name of Strange, who had come down 
to read and get up his health, and had brought his Greek and 
Latin books with him." 



How short a period of time may serve to bring forth vital 
chances and changes ! Sir Karl and Lady Andinnian were 
absent only a week, yet before they returned a stranger 
had taken up his abode at Foxwood, indirectly brought 
to it by Karl himself; and something had happened at The 

Lucy was out amidst her shrubs and flowers the evening of 
her return, when the shadows were lengthening on the grass. 
Karl was writing letters indoors ; Miss Blake had hurried up 
from dinner to attend Vespers. In spite of the estrangement 
and misery that pervaded the home atmosphere, Lucy felt glad 
to be there again. The meeting with her husband, after the 
week's separation, had caused her pulses to quicken and her 
heart to bound with something very like joy. Colonel Cleeve 
was out of all danger ; was almost well again. It had been a 
sharp but temporary attack of illness. The colonel and his 
wife had pressed Lucy to prolong her stay, had asked Karl to 
come and join her ; and they both considered it somewhat 
unaccountable that Lucy should have persisted in declining 
their invitation. Theresa was alone at Foxwood, was the chief 
excuse she urged ; the real impediment being that she and 
Karl could not stay at her mother's home together without risk 
of the terms on which they lived becoming known. So Karl, 
on the day appointed, went from London to Winchester, and 
brought Lucy home. 

For the forbearance she had exercised, the patient silence 
she had maintained, Lucy had in a degree received her reward 
during this sojourn with her father and mother. More thai^ 


fever was it brought home to her then, that she would ahuost 
rather have died than betrayed it. It would have inflicted on 
them so much pain and shame. It would have lowered herself 
so in their sight, and in the sight of those old and young 
friends who had known her in her girlhood, and who whispered 
their sense of what her happiness must now be, and their 
admiration of her attractive husband. ^' Martyrdom rather 
than that ! " said Lucy, clasping her hands with fixed resolution, 
as she paced the grass, on this, the evening of her return. 

Karl came up to her with two letters in his hand. She was 
then sitting under the acacia tree. The sun had set, but in 
the west shone a flood of golden light. The weather in the 
daytime was still warm as in the middle of that hot summer, but 
the evenings and nights were cool. Lucy's shawl lay beside 

*'It is time to put it on," said Karl — and he wrapped it 
round her himself carefully. It caused her to see the addresses 
of the two letters in his hand. One was to Plunkett and 
Plunkett j the other to Mrs. Cleeve. 

" You have been writing to mamma ! " she exclaimed. 

" She asked me to be sure and let her have one line to say 
you reached home safely. I have given your love, Lucy." 

"Thank you, Karl. And now you are going to the post." 

" And now I am going to the post. And I must make haste, 
or I shall find the box closed." 

He took his hand from her shoulder, where it had momentarily 
rested, and crossed the grass, Lucy looking after him. 

'^ How thoughtful and kind he is ! " she soliloquized. And 
her imagination went wandering at random, as imagination will 
do. Once more she reverted to that former possibility — of 
condoning the past and becoming reconciled again. It was 
very good of him, and she felt it so, to have stayed that week 
in London. She fancied he had done it that she might know 
he did not spend his time at The Maze in her absence. And 
so, the evening shadows came on, and Lucy still sat there, lost 
in dreams. 

Miss Blake, it has been said, had hurried from dinner, to go 
to Vespers. As she turned into the road from the Court, she 
saw a boy a little in advance of her on the other side, his 


basket on his arm. It was the doctor's boy, Cris Lumley, 
against whom Miss Blake had a grievance. She crossed over 
and caught him up just as he rang at The Maze gate. 

" Now, Cris Lumley, what have you to say for yourself? For 
three days you have not appeared at class. '^ 

" 'Tain't my fault," said Cris Lumley, who was just as impu- 
dent as he looked ; a very different boy indeed from civil Tom 
Pepp. " It be master's." 

" How is it your master's ? " 

'' What master says is this here : 'I be to attend to him and 
my place, or to give it up if I wants to kick up my heels all day 
at school.' " 

" I don't believe you," said Miss Blake. " I shall speak to 
Mr. Moore." 

*^ Just do, then," said the independent boy. 

" The fact of the case is no doubt this, Cris Lumley — that 
you play truant for half the day sometimes, on the plea of being 
all that while at school." 

*' Master said another thing, he did," resumed the young 
gentleman, ignoring the last accusation. " He said as if 
Parson Sumnor warn't no longer good enough for me to learn 
religion from, he'd get another boy in my place, that he was 
good enough for. There ! you may ask him whether he said 
it or not." 

Declining to bandy further words with him until she should 
have seen the surgeon. Miss Blake was hastening on, when the 
fringe of her mantle caught against his medicine-basket. It 
reminded her that some one must be ill. Battling for a 
moment with her curiosity, but not for long, she condescended 
to inquire who was ill at The Maze. 

" It be the missis," replied Cris. 

*' The mistress ! Do you mean Mrs. Grey ? " 

Mr. Lumley nodded. 

'' What is the matter with /ler ? " 

*' Got a baby," said the boy, shortly. 

For the instant Miss Blake felt struck into herself, and was 
speechless. She did not believe it. 

" He was born yesterday," added the boy. " This be some 
physic for him : and this be the missis's." 


Throwing back the lid of one end of his basket, Miss Blake 
saw two bottles, done up in white paper. The larger was ad- 
dressed *'Mrs. Grey," the smaller *^Mrs. Grey's infant." 

She turned away without another word, feeling ready to sink 
with the weight of the world's iniquity. It pressed upon her 
most unpleasantly throughout the evening service at St. 
Jerome's, and for once Miss Blake was inattentive to the 
exhortations of the Reverend Guy. Looking at the matter as 
Miss Blake looked at it, it must be confessed that she had just 
cause for condemnation. 

To return to Lucy. It grew dusk and more dusk : and she 
at length went indoors. Karl came in, bringing Mr. Moore, 
whom he had overtaken near the gate : and almost close upon 
that. Miss Blake returned. The sight of the doctor, sitting 
there with Karl and Lucy, brought back all Miss Blake's vexa- 
tion. It had been at boiling point for the last hour, and now it 
bubbled over. The wisest course no doubt would have been 
to hold her tongue : but her indignation — a perfectly righteous 
and proper indignation, as she deemed it — forbade that. The 
ill-doing of the boy, respecting which she had been about to 
appeal to Mr. Moore, w^as quite lost sight of in this other ill- 
doing. There could be no fear of risking Jane Shore's penance 
in repeating what she had heard. It was her duty to speak : 
she fully believed that : her duty to open Lucy's obtuse eyes — 
and who knew but Sir Karl might be brought to his senses 
through the speaking ? The surgeon and Lucy were sitting 
near the window in the sweet still twilight : Karl stood back by 
the mantelpiece : and they were deep in some discussion about 
flowers. Miss Blake sat in silence, gathering her mental forces 
for the combat, when the present topic should have died away. 

" I — I have heard some curious news," she began then in a 
low, reluctant tone : and in good truth she was reluctant to 
enter on it. " I heard it from that boy of yours, Mr. Moore. 
He says there's a baby at The Maze." 

" Yes," readily acquiesced Mr. Moore. " A baby-boy, born 

And Miss Blake, rising and standing between the two, saw a 
motion of startled surprise on the part of Kafl Andinnian. 
Lucy looked up, simply not understanding. After a pausCj 


during which no one spoke, Miss Blake, in language softened to 
ambiguousness, took upon herself to intimate that, in her 
opinion, The Maze had no business with a baby. 

Mr. Moore laughed pleasantly. " That, I imagine, is Mrs. 
Grey's concern," he said. 

Lucy understood now : she felt startled almost to sickness. 
^' Is it Mrs. Grey who has the baby?" was on the point of her 
tongue : but she did not speak it. 

"Where is Mrs. Grey's husband?" demanded Miss Blake, 
in her most uncompromising tones. 

" In London, I fancy, just now," said the doctor. 

*^ Ifas she one at all, Mr. Moore ? " 

*^ Good gracious, yes," cried the hearty surgeon, utterly un- 
conscious that it could be of particular moment to any one 
present whether she had or not. " I would answer for it with 
my life, nearly. She's as nice a young lady as I ever wish to 
attend j and good too." 

*' For Lucy's sake, I'll go on ; for his sake, standing there in 
his shame," thought Miss Blake, in her rectitude. " Better 
things may come of it : otherwise I would drop the hateful 
subject for ever." 

*^ Mr. Moore," she continued aloud, '*why do you say the 
husband is in London ? " 

"Because Mrs. Grey said something to that effect," he 
answered. " At least, I understood her to imply as much ; but 
she was very ill at the moment, and I did not question further. 
It was when I was first called in." 

" It has hitherto been represented that Mr. Grey was travelling 
abroad," pursued Miss Blake, with a tone and a stress on the 
" Mr. Grey." 

" I know it has. But he may have returned. I am sure she 
said she had been up to London two or three weeks ago — and 
I thought she meant to imply that she went to meet her 
husband. It may have been a false conclusion I drew; but I 
certainly thought it." 

Sir Karl took a step forward. " I can answer for it that Mrs. 
Grey did go up," he said, " for I chanced to travel in the same 
carriage with her. Getting into the up-train at the station one 
day, I found Mrs. Grey seated there." 


Lucy glanced towards him as he spoke. There was no 
embarrassment in his countenance; his voice was easy and 
open as though he had spoken of a stranger. Her own face 
looked white as death. 

" You did ! " cried the doctor. *^ Did she tell you she was 
going up to meet Mr. Grey ? " 

" No, she did not. I put her into a cab at the terminus, and 
that's all I know about it. It was broiling hot, I remember." 

" Well," resumed the doctor, " whether it was to meet her 
husband or not, to London she went for a day or two in the 
broiling heat — as Sir Karl aptly terms it — and she managed to 
fatigue herself so much that she had not been able to recover 
it, and has been very unwell ever since. This young gentle- 
man, who chose to take upon himself to make his appearance 
in the world yesterday, was not due for a good two months to 

Lucy rose and left the room, she and her white face. Karl 
followed her with his eyes j he had seen the pallor. 

" Is it a healthy child ? " he asked. 

** Quite so," replied the surgeon ; *^ but very small. The 
worst of these little monkeys is, you can't send them back again 
with a whipping w^hen they make too much haste, and tell them 
to come again at proper time. Mrs. Grey's very ill." 

'^s she?" breathed Karl. 

" Yes. And there's no nurse and no anything ; matters are 
all at sixes-and-sevens." 

" I hope she'll do well ! " said Karl. 

" So do I." 

Miss Blake looked at the two speakers. The one seemed 
just as open as the other. She thought what a finished adept 
Karl xAndinnian was growing in deception. 

" I am going to The Maze now," said the doctor : " w^as on 
my way to it when you seduced me in here. Sir Karl. Good 
evening, Miss Blake." 

He took his departure hastily as he spoke. He was, as he 
told them, on his way to The Maze then. Karl went with him 
to the outer gate, and then paced the lawn in the evening 

"After all, it is well it's over," ran his thoughts. "This 

Within the Maze. IS 


anticipated illness was always putting itself forward when I was 
planning to get Adam away. Once Rose is well again, the 
ground will so far be clear. But, good Heavens ! how it 
increases the risk ! Here's Moore going in at any hour of the 
day or night, I suppose — and Adam so incautious ! Well, I 
think he will take care of himself, and keep in seclusion for his 
own sake. And for myself — it brings more complication,'^ he 
added, with a sigh. " The child is heir now instead of me : and 
the whole property must eventually come to him. Poor Lucy ! 
I saw she felt it. Oh, she may well be vexed ! Does she quite 
understand, I wonder, who this baby is, and what it will take 
from us? Foxwood amidst the rest? I wish I had never 
married her ! I wish a merciful Heaven had interposed to 
prevent it." 

When Mr. Moore, some eight-and-forty hours previously, 
received a hurried visit from Mrs. Grey's servant, Ann Hopley, 
in the evening, and heard what she had to say about her mis- 
tress, he was excessively astonished, not having had the slightest 
idea that his services were likely to be wanted in any such 
way at The Maze. It is possible that some doubts of Mrs. 
Grey's position crossed his mind at the moment : but he was 
a good man, and he made it a rule never to think ill if he could 
by possibility think good ; and when he came to see and con- 
verse with Mrs. Grey, he felt sure she was all she should be. 
The baby was born on the following morning. Since then the 
doctor, as Karl expressed it, had been going in at all hours : 
Ann Hopley invariably preceding him through the maze, and 
conducting him out of it again at his departure. As he marched 
on to The Maze to-night after the above conversation at the 
Court, he wondered what Miss Blake had got in her head, and 
why she should betray so much anger over it. 

Three or four days went on. The doctor passed in and out 
in the care of his patient, and never a notion entered his head 
that The Maze was tenanted by any except its ordinary inmates, 
or that one lying under a ban was there in concealment. Ann 
Hopley, letting her work go as it would, attended on her 
mistress and the baby : the old gardener was mostly busy in 
his garden as usual. On the fifth or sixth day from the com- 
mencement of the illness, Mr. Moore, upon paying his usual 


morning visit, found Mrs. Grey worse. There were rather 
dangerous symptoms of fever. 

"Has she been exciting herself?" he privately asked of Ann 

" She did a little last night, sir/' was the incautious admission. 

"What about?" 

" Well, sir — chiefly talking." 

" Chiefly talking ! " repeated the doctor. " But what were 
you about to let her talk?" he demanded, supposing Ann 
Hopley to be the only other inmate of the house. "What 
possessed you to talk to her ? " 

Ann was silent. She could have said that it was not with 
her Mrs Grey had talked, but with her husband. 

" I must send a nurse in," he resumed. " Not only to see that 
she is kept quiet, but to attend to her constantly. It is not pos- 
sible that you can be with her always with your work to attend to." 

But all this Ann Hopley most strongly combated. She could 
attend to her mistress, and would, and did attend to her, she 
urged, and a nurse she would not have in the house. From 
the first, this question of a nurse had been a bone of conten ion 
between them ; the doctor wanting to send one in ; Ann Hopley 
and also Mrs. Grey strenuously objecting. So once more the 
doctor yielded, and let the matter drop, inwardly resolving that 
if his patient did not get better during the day, he should take 
French leave to pursue his own course. 

Late in the afternoon he went in again. Mrs. Grey was 
worse : flushed, restless, and slightly delirious. The doctor 
said nothing : but when he reached home, he sent a summons 
for Mrs. Chaffen. A skilled nurse, she; and first cousin to the 
Widow Jinks, both in respect of kin and in love of gossip. 

That same evening, after dark, when Adam Andinnian was 
sitting in his wife's room, and Ann Hopley was concocting 
something in a saucepan over the kitchen fire, the gate-bell 
clanged out. It had been nothing unusual to hear it these last 
few days at any hour ; and the, putting the saucepan 
on the hob, went forth, key in hand. 

No sooner had she unlocked the gate than Mr. Moore 
brushed past her, followed by a little thin woman with a bundle. 
Ann Hopley stared : but never a word said he 


*' Keep dose to me, and you won't lose yourself,'^ cried he 
to the little woman ; and went tearing off at a double-quick 
pace through the intricacies of the maze. 

Ann Hopley stood as one bewildered. For one thing, she 
had not possessed the slightest notion that the surgeon knew 
his way through, for he had given no special indication of it, 
always having followed her. He could have told her that he 
had learnt the secret of the maze long before she came to 
Foxwood. It had been shown to him in old Mr. Throcton's 
time, whom he had attended for years. And, to see a second 
person pass in, startled her. All she could do was to lock the 
gate, and follow them. 

On went the doctor ; the little woman keeping close to his 
heels : and they were beyond the maze in no time. Mr. Moore 
had no particular motive for this unusual haste, except that he 
had another patient waiting for him, and was in a hurry. In, 
at the open portico, passed he, and made direct for the stairs, 
the woman after him. Ann Hopley, some distance behind, could 
only pray in agony that her master might escape their view. 

But he did not do so. The doctor had nearly reached the 
top of the staircase, when a gentleman, tall, and in evening 
dress, suddenly presented himself in front, apparently to see 
who might be coming up. He drew back instantly, strode 
noiselessly along the corridor, and disappeared within a door 
at its extreme end. It all passed in a moment. What with 
the speed, and what with the obscurity of the stairs and pas- 
sages, any one, less practical than the doctor, might have 
questioned whether it had happened at all. 

*' That's Mr. Grey, come down," thought he. '^ But he 
seems to wish not to be noticed. Be it so." 

Had he cared to make any remark upon it to Mrs. Grey, he 
could not have done so, for she was quite delirious that night. 
And, as he saw no further sign of the gentleman at any sub- 
sequent visit, he merely supposed that Mr. Grey had come 
down for a few hours, and had gone again. And the matter 
passed from his mind. 

It did not so pass from the nurse's. Mrs. Chaffen had dis- 
tinctly seen the gentleman in evening dress looking down the 
stairs at her and the doctor : she saw him glide away, and go 


into the further room. In the obscure light, Mrs. Chaffen 
made him out to be a very fine-looking gentleman with beautiful 
white teeth. She had keen eyesight, and she saw that much. 
She had also a weakness for fine-looking men, and felt glad 
that one so fine as this should be in the house. It could not 
make much difference to her ; but she liked gentlemen to be 
in a dwelling where she was located : they made it lively, were 
pleasant to talk to; and were generally to be found more 
liberal in glasses of wine and what not than the mistresses. 
Like the doctor, she supposed this was Mrs. Grey's husband 
come down at last. 

She neither saw nor heard any more of the gentleman that 
night, though she sat up with her patient. Neither did she 
on the following day — and then she began to think it somewhat 
odd. At dusk, when Mrs. Grey and the baby were both 
sleeping, she went downstairs. 

AVhen Ann Hopley found the nurse installed there, and that 
she was powerless to prevent it, she had to make the best of 
the unfortunate occurrence — and most unfortunate it was 
destined to turn out in the end. She gave the nurse certain 
directions. One of them was, ** Ring for everything you want, 
and I will bring it up." The woman's meals also were brought 
up to her punctually : Ann's object of course being to prevent 
her going about the house. But nurses are but human. Mrs. 
Chaffen was longing for a word of gossip, and downstairs she 
went to-night, and made her way to the kitchen, Ann Hopley 
was ironing at a table under the window. 

**What do you want?" cried she, in a quick, startled tone, 
as the nurse appeared. 

" I thought I'd get you to give me a glass of beer, Mrs, 
Hopley," was the answer. ** I'm a'most faint, stopping so long 
in that there room with its smell of ether about." 

** Why could you not have rung? I'll bring it up to you." 

In the very teeth of this plain intimation, Mrs. Chaffen sat 
herself down on a chair by the ironing-board, and began fanning 
her face with the corner of her white apron. ^' The missis is 
asleep," she said : " she's a sight better to-night ; and I shall 
stop here while I drink the beer, fpr a bit of relief and 


Ann took a small jug from the dresser, went down to the 
cellar, brought up the beer, and poured it into a tumbles 
Mrs. Chaffen took a good draught of it and smacked her lips. 

'' That ain't bad beer, Mrs. Hopley ? " 

" Not at all," said Ann Hopley. '' Drink it up." 

She would not go on with her ironing, lest it might seem an 
excuse for the nurse to linger : she stood by the fire, waiting, 
and evidently wanting the nurse gone. 

" Your husband's a-taking of it easy, out there ! " 

Ann glanced from the window, and saw the gardener seated 
amongst a heap of drying weeds, his back against the tool-house, 
and a pipe in his mouth. 

" He has done his work, I suppose, for the day," she said. 

'^And he knows his missis's eyes can't be upon him just 
now," added the nurse, taking another draught. " He don't 
hardly look strong enough to do all this here big garden." 

" You couldn't offend Hopley worse than by teUing him that. 
His mistress says nothing about it now, it puts him up so. 
Last May, when he was laid up in bed with the rheumatis, she 
ordered a gardener in for two or three days to clear up some of 
the rough work. Hopley was not at all grateful : he only 
grumbled at it when he got about again." 

" It's just like them good old-fashioned servants that takes 
pride in their work," said the nurse. *' There's not many of 
the young uns like 'em. The less work they have to do the 
better it pleases f/iem. Is that a hump now, or only a stoop of 
the shoulders?" continued she, ignoring manners in her 

*' It used to be only a stoop, Mrs. Chaffen. But those 
things, you know, always get worse with years." 

Mrs. Chaffen nodded. ^'And gardening work, when one 
has a natural stoop, is the worst sort of work a man can 
take to." 

"True," assented Ann. She had spoken absently all along, 
and kept glancing round and listening, as though ill at ease. 
One might have fancied she feared a ghost was coming down 
the staircase. 

"What be you a-harkening at?" asked Mrs. Chaffen. 

*'For fear the baby should cry.'" 


'^The baby's in a sweet sleep, he is. I wonder whether he'll 
get reared, that baby? — he's very little. Where's the gentle- 
man ? '^ abruptly inquired Mrs. Chaffen, after a pause. 

" What gentleman ? " 

'' Mrs. Grey's husband. Him we saw here last night." 

If Ann Hopley had been apathetic before, she was fully 
aroused to interest now, and turned her eyes upon the nurse 
with a long stare. 

"Why, what are you talking of?" she asked. "There has 
been no gentleman here. Mrs. Grey's husband is abroad.'^ 

" But I saw him," persisted the nurse. " He stood right at 
the head of the staircase when me and Dr. Moore was a-going 
up it. I saw him." 

*^ I'm sure you didn't." 

" I'm sure I did." 

Then they went on, asserting and reasserting. Nurse 
Chaffen protesting, by all that was truthful, that she did see 
the gentleman : i\nn Hopley denying in the most emphatic 
language that any gentleman had been there, or could have 
been there. Poor woman ! in her faithful zeal for her master's 
safety ; in her terrible fear lest this might bring danger upon 
him ; she went so far as to vow that no Hving soul had been in 
the house or about it, except her mistress and the infant, herself 
and Hopley. 

The assertion had its effect. Nurse Chaffen was not an 
irreligious woman, though she did indulge in unlimited gossip, 
and loved a glass of beer when she could get it ; and she could 
not believe that a thing so solemnly asserted was a lie. She 
felt puzzled to death : her eyes were good and had never played 
her false yet. 

" Have you a ghost in the house ? " she asked at length, 
edging a little nearer to the ironing-board and to Ann Hopley. 

" I have never seen or head of one." 

" It's a rare old place, this house. Folks said all kinds of 
queer things about it in Miser Throcton's time." 

'' He left no ghost in it, that I know of," repeated Ann. 

^^Well, I never! I can't make it out. You might a'most 
as soon tell me to believe there's no truth in the Bible. He 
Stood atop o' the stairs, looking down at me and the doctor. 


It was dusk, I grant; a'most dark; but I saw him as plain 
as plain could be. He had white teeth and a suit of black 
on ; and he went off into that door that's at the fur end of the 

A keen observer might have detected a sleeping terror in 
Ann Hopley's eyes; but she was habitually calm, and she 
showed perfect calmness now, knowing how much was at stake. 
A great deal all through had depended upon her presence ot 
mind, her easy equanimity in warding off suspicion : it 
depended more than ever on her at this trying time, and she 
had her wits about her. 

*'Your eyes and the dusk must have misled you, Mrs. 
Chaffen," she quietly rejoined. ^' Is it possible — I put it to 
yourself — that any gentleman could be in this house, and me 
and Hopley not know it ? That night I had run down from 
my mistress's room, where she was lying off her head with the 
fever, and the baby asleep in its little bed by the fire, and was 
making a drop of gruel in the kitchen here, when the ring at 
the gate came. I had a great mind to send Hopley to open 
it : I heard him out yonder putting up his tools for the night : 
but I should have had to go close up to make him understand, 
for he's as deaf as a post ; and his knees would have been a 
long while making their way through the maze. So I went 
myself: it seemed less trouble; and I let in you and the 
doctor. As to any soul's having been in the place, save me 
and Hopley and the missis and baby, it's a moral impossibility ; 
and if necessary I could swear to it.'^ 

" Where do that there end door lead to ? '' questioned Mrs. 
Chaffen, only half-convinced ; and that half against her will. 

" It leads to nowhere. It's a sitting-room. Mrs. Grey does 
not often use it." 

*' Well, this beats everything, this do. I'm sure I could 
have swore that a gentleman was there." 

^* It was quite a mistake. Hark ! there is the baby.' 

Nurse Chaffen flew up the stairs. Ann Hopley went on with 
her ironing ; her face, now that she was alone, allowing its 
terror to be seen. 

" It is so foolish of my master to run risks just at this time, 
when the house is liable to be invaded h^ strangers ! '^ she 


ejaculated wearily. " But who was to foresee the doctor would 
come bursting in like that ? Pray Heaven master doesn't show 
himself again while the woman's here ! " 

Mrs. Chaffen sat in the sick-room, the baby occupying her 
lap, and the problem her mind. Never in her life had she felt 
so entirely in a mist. Ann Hopley she could not and would 
not disbeUeve : and yet, in her reasoning moments, she was as 
fully persuaded that a gentleman had been there, and that she 
had seen him, as that the sun shone in the sky. 

A day or two went on ; and the subject was never out of the 
woman's mind. Now leaning to this side of the question, now 
wavering to that, she could not arrive at any positive conclu- 
sion. But, taking one thing with another, she thought the 
house was rather a strange house. Why did Ann Hopley want 
to keep her for ever in that one room ? — as she evidently did 
want to — and prevent her from moving freely about the house ? 
An unfortunate doubt got possession of her — was there a gentle- 
man in the house after all ; and, for some reason or other, 
keeping himself concealed ? Unfortunate, because it was to 
bear unpleasant fruit. 

^*Be whipped if it is not the most likely solution o' the 
matter I've thought of yet ! " cried she, striking her hand on 
the high fender. " But how do he manage to hide himself from 
Ann Hopley ? — and how do he get his victuals ? Sure-/y she 
can't have been deceiving me — and as good as taking oaths to 
an untruth ! She'd not be so wicked." 

From that time Mrs. Chaffen looked curiously about her, 
poking and peering around whenever she had the opportunity. 
One morning in particular, when Mrs. Grey was asleep, and 
she saw Ann go out to answer the bell, and Hopley was safe at 
the end of the garden, for she could hear him rolling the path 
there, Mrs. Chaffen made use of the occasion. She wxnt along 
the passage to the door where the gentleman had disappeared, 
and found herself in a dull sitting-room wainscoted with 
mahogany, its wide modern window looking to the maze. 
Keenly Mrs. Chaffen's eyes darted about the room : but there 
was no other outlet that she could see. The dark panelling 
went from the door to the window, and from the window round 
to the door again. After that, she made her way into the small 


angular passages that the house seemed to abouna in : two of 
them were bedrooms with the beds made up, the others seemed 
to be out of use. None of them were locked ; the doors of 
most of them stood open ; but certainly in not one of them was 
there any trace of a hidden gentleman. 

That same day, when she had finished her dinner, brouglit 
up to her as usual, she hastily put the things together on the 
tray and darted off with it downstairs. Mrs. Grey feebly called 
to her : but the nurse, conveniently deaf, went on without 
hearing. The staircase was angular, the turnings were short, 
and Mrs. Chaffen, as she went through the last one, gave the 
tray an inadvertent knock against the wall. Its plates rattled, 
betraying her approach : and — if ever she had heard a bolt 
slipped in her life, she felt sm*e she heard one slipped inside 
the kitchen-door. 

" It's me, Mrs. Hopley, with the tray," she called out, going 
boldly on. " Open the door." 

No answer. No signs of being heard. Everything seemed 
perfectly still. Mrs. Chaffen managed to lodge the tray against 
the door-post and hold it steadily with one hand, while she 
tried the door with the other. But she could not open it. 

" Mrs. Hopley, it's me, with the tray. Please open." 

It was opened then. Ann Hopley flung it wide, and stood 
staring, a saucepan in her hand. ^'What! have you brought 
the things down ! " she exclaimed in surprise. " Why on earth 
couldn't you let them be till I came up ? " 

The nurse carried her tray onwards, and put it down on the 
board under the window. At the table, not having been polite 
enough to his wife to take off his flapping straw hat in her 
presence, sat the gardener, munching his dinner as toothless 
people best can, his back to the light. 

*'Why did you keep me waiting at the door?" asked the 
nurse, not pleased. 

^' Did you wait?" returned Ann Hopley. "I was in the 
back place there, washing out the saucepans. You might have 
come in without knocking." 

" The door was bolted." 

^'The door bolted !— not it," disputed Ann. "The latch 
has a nasty trick of catching, though," 


" This is fine weather, Mr. Hopley ! " said the nurse, leaving 
the point uncontested, and raising her voice. 

He seemed to be, as Ann had formerly expressed it, as deaf 
as a post. Neither turning his head nor answering, but keeping 
on at his dinner. Ann bent her head to his ear. 

*' The nurse, Mrs. Chaffen, spoke to you, Hopley. She says 
what fine weather it is." 

"Ay, ay, ma'am," said he; "fine and bright." 

What more might have passed was stopped by the ringing of 
Mrs. Grey's bell; a loud, impatient peal. The nurse turned 
to run. 

" For pity's sake don't leave her again, Mrs. Chaffen ! " 
called out Ann Hopley, with some irritation. " If you do, I 
shall complain to Mr. Moore. You'll cause the fever to 

" I could be upon my oath that she slipped the bolt to keep 
me out," thought the nurse, hurrying along. " Drat the cross- 
grained woman ! Does she fear I shall poison her kitchen.^" 



Mrs. Jinks's new lodger, Mr. Strange, was making himself at 
home, not only at Mrs. Jinks's, but in the village generally, 
and gradually growing familiar with its stories and its politics. 
Talking with the men at the station one hour, chatting to the 
field labourers the next ; stepping into the shops to buy tobacco, 
or paper, or lozenges, and staying a good twenty minutes before 
he came out again : Mr. Strange was ingratiating himself with 
the local world. 

But, though he gossiped freely enough without doors and 
with Mrs. Jinks within, he did not appear anxious to cultivate 
intimacy with the social sphere ; but rather avoided it. The 
Reverend Mr. Cattacomb, relying on the information that the 
new lodger was a gentleman reading for Oxford, had taken 
the initiative and made an advance towards acquaintanceship. 
Mr. Strange, whilst receiving it with perfect civility, intimated 


that he was obliged to decline it. His health, he said, left him 
no alternative, and he had come to the country for entire quiet. 
As to his reading for Oxford, it was a mistake, he hinted. He 
was reading ; but not with a view to going to college. After 
that, the gentlemen bowed when they chanced to meet in the 
passages or out of doors, exchanged perhaps a remark on the 
fine weather ; and there it ended. 

The reader has not failed to detect that this '^ Mr. Strange," 
the name caught up so erroneously by Mrs. Jinks, was in 
reality the shrewd detective officer sent down by Scotland Yard 
in search of Philip Salter. His instructions were, not to hurry 
matters to an abrupt conclusion, and so miss his game, but to 
track out Salter patiently and prudently. A case on which he 
had been recently engaged /lad been hurried and lost. Cir- 
cumstances connected with it had caused him to lose sight of 
his usual prudence : he thought he was justified in doing what 
he did, and acted for the best : but the result proved him to 
have been wrong. No fear, with this failure on his mind, and 
the caution of his superiors in his ears, that he would be in 
overmuch hurry now. In point of fact, he could not, if he 
would, for there was nothing to hurry over. 

For some time not a trace of any kind could Mr. Strange 
find of Philip Salter. People with whom he gossiped talked 
to him without any reserve ; he was sure of that ; and he would 
artfully lead the conversation and twist it the way he pleased ; 
but he could hear nothing of any one likely to be Salter. The 
man might as well never have been within a hundred miles of 
Foxwood ; for the matter of that, he might as well never have 
had existence, for all trace that was left of him. Scotland 
Yard, however, was sure that Salter was to be found not far 
off, and that was enough : Mr. Strange, individually, felt surq 
of it also. 

Knowing what he had been told of the visits of Sir Karl 
Andinnian to Detective Burtenshaw, and their object, Mr. 
Strange's attention was especially directed to Foxwood Court. 
Before he had been three days in the village, he had won the 
heart of Giles the footman (much at liberty just then, through 
the temporary absence of his master and mistress) and treated 
him to five glasses of best ale d,t different times in different 


public-houses. Giles, knowing no reason for reticence, freely 
described all he knew about Foxwood Court : the number of 
inmates, their names, duties, persons, and all the rest of it. 
Not the least idea penetrated his brain that his gentleman 
friend had any motive for listening to the details, save whiling 
away some of the day's idle hours. There was certainly no 
one at the Court that could be at all identified with the missing 
man ; and, so far, Mr. Strange had lost his time, and his money 
paid for ale. Of course he put questions as to Sir Karl's 
movements — where he went to in the day, what calls he made, 
and what he did. But Giles could give no available informa- 
tion. Happily, he was ignorant of his master's visits to The 

In short — from what Mr. Strange could gather from Giles 
and others, there was no one whatever in or about Foxwood, 
then or in times pist, that at all answered to Philip Salter. 
He heard Mr. Smith spoken of — ^* Smith, the agent, an old 
friend of the Andinnian family " — but it did not once occur to 
him to attempt to identify him with the criminal. Smith the 
agent (whom, by the way, Mr. Strange had not yet chanced to 
see) was living openly in the place, going about amidst the 
tenants on the estate, appearing at church, altogether trans- 
acting his business and pursuing his course without conceal- 
ment : that is not how Salter would have dared to live, and 
the detective did not give Smith a suspicious thought. No : 
wherever Salter might be, he was evidently in strict conceal- 
ment : and it must be Mr. Strange's business to hunt him out 
of it. 

In the meantime, no speculation whatever had been aroused 
in the village as to Mr. Strange himself. He had taken care 
to account for his stay there at the outset, and so people's 
minds were at rest. The gentleman in delicate health was free 
to come and go ; his appearance in the street, roads, or fields, 
excited no more conjecture or observation than did that of the 
oldest inhabitant. The Reverend Mr. Cattacomb was stared 
at whenever he appeared, in consequence of the proceedings at 
St. Jerome's : Mr. Strange passed along in peace. 

Still, he learnt nothing. Sir Karl and Lady Andinnian had 
returned home long and long ago; he often saw them out 


(though he took care they should not see him), together or 
separately as the case might be, Sir Karl sometimes driving her 
in a beautiful little pony-chaise : but he could find no trace of 
the man he was sent after. Sir Karl heard that some young 
student was in the village, out of health and reading for 
Oxford ; he somehow caught up the notion that it was only a 
lad, and as he never chanced to see him, thought no more of 
him. And whether Mr. Strange might not have thrown up the 
game in a short time for utter want of scent, cannot be told. 
A clue — or what he thought to be a clue — arose at last. 

It arose, too, out of a slight misfortune that happened to 
himself. Entering the house one evening at dusk, before the 
passage-lamp was lighted, he chanced to put his foot into a 
tray of wine-glasses, that the young maid had incautiously 
placed on the floor outside the parlour-door. In trying to 
start back and save the glasses, Mr. Strange sHpped, went 
down with his right hand upon the tray, broke a glass or two^ 
and cut his hand in three or four places. Miss Blake was 
there at the time, helping to catechize some young children : 
she felt really sorry for the mishap, and kindly went upstairs to 
the drawing-room to see its extent. The hand was in a bowl 
of warm water, and Mrs. Jinks was searching for linen to bind 
it up with. 

"Why do you put it into warm water, Mr. Strange?'^ Miss 
Blake asked ; " it will make it bleed all the more." 

"Some bits of glass may have got in," he replied. 

'' Will you have Mr. Moore ?" 

But he laughed at the notion of sending for a doctor to cut 
fingers, and bound up the hand himself, saying it would be all 
right. The next day, in the afternoon, Miss Blake made her 
appearance in his room to inquire how the damage was pro- 
gressing, and found Mrs. Jinks in the act of assisting him to 
dress it with some precious ointment that she vowed was 
better than gold, and would not fail to heal the cuts in a day 
or two. 

Miss Blake had previously a speaking acquaintanceship witb 
Mr. Strange, having often met him going in and out. She sat 
down ; and the three were chatting amicably, when they were- 
pounced upon by little Mrs. Chaffen. Happening to call in to^ 


See her cousin, and hearing from the maid downstairs what 
Mrs. Jinks was then engaged upon— dressing the gentleman's 
hand — the nurse ran up to offer her more experienced services. 

She took the hand out of Mrs. Jinks's into her own, and 
dressed it and bound it up as well as Mr. Moore himself could 
have done. It was nearly over when, by a curious coincidence 
— curious, considering what was to come of it — the conversation 
turned upon ghosts. Upon ghosts, of all things in the world ! 
Some noise had been heard in the house the previous night by 
all the inmates, which had not been in any way accounted for. 
It was like the falling of a piece of heavy furniture. It had 
awakened Mr. Cattacomb; it had awakened Mrs. Jinks; it 
had startled Mr. Strange, who was not asleep. The history of 
this was being given to Miss Blake, Mr. Strange gravely assert- 
ing it could have been nothing but a ghost — and that set Mrs. 
Chaffen on. She proceeded to tell them with real gravity, not 
assumed, that she did believe a ghost -in the shape of a gentle- 
man in dinner-dress haunted The Maze : or else that her eyes 
were taking to see visions. 

It should be mentioned that after a week's attendance on 
Mrs. Grey, Nurse Chaffen had been discharged. The patient 
was then going on quite well : and, as Mr. Moore saw that it 
worried her to have the nurse there— for whom she seemed to 
have conceived an insurmountable dislike — he sent her away. 
The summary dismissal did not please the nurse : and she 
revenged herself by reporting that The Maze had a ghost in it. 
As a rule, people laughed at her and thought no more about 
it : this afternoon her tale was to bear different fruit. 

She told it consecutivel3^ How she had been quite flurried 
by being called out by Dr. Moore all on a sudden ; how he 
had taken her straight off to The Maze without saying where it 
was she was going till she got to the gate ; how she and the 
doctor had seen the gentleman at the top of the stairs (which 
she took to be the sick lady's husband), and watched him 
vanish into an end room, and had never seen the least sign of 
him afterwards; how the servant, Mrs. Hopley, had vowed 
through thick and thin that no gentleman was, or had been, or 
could have been in the house, unknown to her and Hopley. 

Nurse Chaffen talked away to her heart's content, enlarging 

288 WitHm THE MAZE; 

upon points of her story. Not one of them interrupted her 5 
not one but would have listened with interest had she run on 
until midnight. Mrs. Jinks from her love of marvellous tales ; 
the detective because he believed this might be the clue he 
wanted to Philip Salter ; and Miss Blake in her resentful con- 
demnation of Sir Karl Andinnian. For, that the '^gentleman 
in dinner-dress '^ was no other than Sir Karl, who had stolen 
in on one of his secret visits, she could have staked her life upon. 

" A tall gentleman with dark hair, you say it looked like ? '^ 
questioned Mr. Strange, indifferently. 

"Tall, for certain, sir. As to his hair, I don't know; it 
might have been darkish. I see he had nice white teeth." 

*' Salter had good teeth," was the mental comment of the 
detective. " / have found htniy 

*^ And in dinner-dress ? " added Miss Blake, with a cough. 

" So it looked like, ma'am. The sort of coat that gentle- 
folks wears in an evening." 

" And you mean to say you never see him after ; never but 
that there one time ? " tartly interposed the Widow Jinks. 

" Never at all. The rooms was all open to daylight while I 
was there, but he wasn't in never a one of 'em." 

'^Then I tell you what, Betsy Chaffen; it was a ghost, and 
you need not hesitate to stand to it." 

*' Well, you see, he didn't look like a ghost, but like an 
ordinary gentleman," confessed Mrs. Chaffen. " What came 
over me, and what I can't make out, was Ann Hopley's standing 
it out that neither ghost nor gentleman was there : she said 
she'd take her oath to it." 

"Thank you, you've done my hand up beautifully, Mrs. 
Chaffen," said the patient. " I should give my credence to the 
spirit theory. Did Mr. Moore see the appearance of this 
ghostly gentleman ? " 

" Yes, he did, sir. I'm sure he did. For he lifted his head, 
like, at the gentleman, and stood still when he got to the top 
of the stairs, staring at the room he had vanished into. I told 
him a day or two afterwards that Mrs. Hopley denied that any 
one had been there, and the doctor quietly said, 'Then we 
must have been mistaken.' I did not like to ask whether he 
thought it was a ghost." 


" Oh, I think you may depend upon the ghost/* returned 
Mr. Strange, biting his lips to prevent a laugh. 

" Well, sir, queer stories was told of that Maze house in the 
late tenant's time. My cousin Jinks here knows that well 

'' It was haunted by more than one ghost then, if all folks 
told true," assented Mrs. Jinks. " Mr. Throcton's son — a 
wild young blade he was — hung hisself there. I was but a girl 
at the time." 

" Ah, one of the old ghosts come back again ; not been laid 
yet," solemnly remarked the detective, staring at Mrs. Chaffen. 
" Did the lady herself seem alarmed ? " 

" Well, sir, I can't say she did then, because she couldn't 
have seen it, and was too ill besides. But she had a curious 
manner with her." 

" Curious ? " questioned Mr. Strange. 

" Yes, sir, curious. As if she was always frightened. When 
everything was as still as still could be, she'd seem to be 
listening like, as though expecting to hear something. Now 
and then she'd start up in bed in a fright, and cry out What 
was that ? — when there had been no noise at all." 

*^ Feverish fancies," quietly remarked Mr. Strange, with a 

By-and-by, the party separated. As Nurse Chaffen was 
descending to the kitchen, leaving Mrs. Jinks putting the room 
straight. Miss Blake, who had gone down first, put forth her 
hand and drew the nurse into Mr. Cattacomb's parlour ; that 
reverend man being absent on some of his pastoral calls. 

" I have been so muc/i interested in this that you have been 
telling us, nurse," she breathed. '^ It seems quite to have taken 
hold of me. What was the gentleman like ? Did he resemble 
any one you know — Sir Karl Andinnian, for instance ? " 

'^ Why, ma'am, how can I tell who he resembled? I didn't 
get enough look at him for that," was the answer. " I saw his 
head and the tails of his coat when he turned — and that was 
all. Except his teeth : I did see them." 

^^ And they were white teeth — good teeth ? " 

" Oh, beauties. White and even as a die." 

"Sir Karl's teeth are white and even," commented Miss 

Within the Maze. 19 


Blake to herself. " Had Mrs. Grey any visitors while you were 
there, nurse ? " 

" Never a one. Never a soul came inside the gates, good or 
bad, but the doctor. I don't fancy the lady has made friends 
in the place at all, ma'am. She hkes to keep herself to herself, 
Ann Hopley thinks, while Mr. Grey's away." 

*^0h, naturally," said Miss Blake. And she dismissed the 

The Widow Jinks' had a surprise that night. Mr. Strange, 
hitherto so quiet and well conducted, asked for the latch-key ! 
She could not forbear a caution as she gave it him : not to stay 
out too late on account of his health. He laughed pleasantly 
in answer ; saying he expected a friend down by the last train 
from London, and might stay out late with him. 

But he never went near the station, and he met no friend. 
Keeping as much in the shades of night as the very bright 
moon allowed him to do, Mr. Strange arrived by a circuitous 
way at the gate of The Maze, and let himself in with a master-key. 

*'The dolt I was, never to have suspected this shut-in place 
before ! " he exclaimed. " Salter is lying here in concealment : 
there can be no doubt of it : and, if his career's at an end, he 
may thank his own folly in having allowed himself to be seen 
by the woman Chaffen. Wonder who the sick lady is? 
Perhaps his wife : perhaps not. And now — how to get through 
this maze that they talk of? Knowing something of mazes, I 
dare say I shall accomplish it without trouble." 

And he did so. His keen intelligence, sharpened no doubt 
by experience, enabled him, if not to hit upon the clue, at least 
to get through the maze. A small compass was hanging to his 
watch-guard, and he lighted a match frequently to consult it. 
In this way he got through. He looked at the house from all 
points; he penetrated to the outer path or circle, and went 
round and round it : he made, so to say, the outer premises his 
own. Then he went through the maze to reconnoitre the 
house again. 

It lay quiet, steeped in the moonlight. He stood at the 
back of the lawn, against the laurel trees that skirted the flower- 
beds, and gazed at it. In one of the rooms a night-light was 
burning faintly, and he fancied he could hear the continuous 


wail of an infant. To make sure whether it was so, or not — 
though in truth it mattered not to him, and was a very probable 
thing to happen — he stood forward a little on the lawn : but as 
that brought him into the moonlight, he retreated into the 
shade again. Most of the windows had blinds or curtains 
drawn before them : the only one that had none was the case- 
ment over the portico. Mr. Strange stood there as if rooted 
to the spot, making his silent observations. 

*' Yes ; this is where my gentleman is lying concealed, safe 
enough — safe enough, as he thinks. There may be some 
difficulty in as safely unearthing him. He wouldn't dare to be 
here without facihties for guarding against surprise and for 
getting away at the first sound of the alarm bugle. This is a 
queer old house : there may be all kinds of hiding-places in it. 
I must go to work cautiously, and it may be a long job. 
Suppose I look again at the door fastenings ? " 

The moon was beginning to wane when the detective with 
his false key let himself out again ; and he thought he had his 
work tolerably well cut out to his hand. 

The faint wailing had not been fancy. For the first week or 
two of the child's life it had seemed to thrive, small though it 
was ; but, after that, it began to be a little delicate, and would 
sometimes wail as though in pain. On this night the child — 
who slept with its mother — woke up and began its wail. Ann 
Hopley, whom the slightest noise awoke, hearing that her 
mistress did not seem able to soothe it, left her own bed to try 
and do so. Presently, in going to fetch some medicine for the 
child, she had to pass the casement window in the passage; 
the one that was uncurtained. The exceeding beauty of the 
night struck her, and she paused to look out upon it, the old 
black shawl she had thrown on being drawn closely round her. 
The grass shone in the moonlight \ the laurel leaves flickered 
in its rays. At that self-same moment, as the woman looked, 
some movement directed her attention to these very laurels : 
and to her utter horror she thought she saw a man standing 
there, apparently watching the house. 

The sickness of intense fear seized upon her as she drew 
aside — but the black shawl and the small diamond panes of 
the casement had prevented her from being observed. Yes : 


she was not mistaken. The man came forth for an instant 
into the moonhght, and then went back again. Ann Hopley's 
fear turned her heart cold. Her first impulse was to rush 
through the passages and arouse Sir Adam Andinnian. Her 
second impulse was to wait and watch. She remembered her 
master's most dangerous temperament, and the pistols he 
always kept loaded. This intruder might be only some 
wretched night marauder, who had stolen in after the fruit. 
Watching there, she saw him presently go round in the direc- 
tion of the fruit-trees, and concluded that her surmise was 

So she held her tongue to her master and mistress. The 
latter she would not alarm; the former she dared not, lest 
another night Sir Adam should take up his stand at the window, 
pistol in hand. Two things puzzled her the next morning : the 
one was, how the man could have got in ; the other, that 
neither fruit nor flowers seemed to have been taken. 

That same day, upon going to the gate to answer a ring, she 
found herself confronted by a strange gentleman, who said he 
had called from hearing the house was to be let, and he wished 
to look at it. Ann Hopley thought this rather strange. She 
assured him it was a mistake : the house was not to be let : Mrs. 
Grey had no intention of leaving. When he pressed to go in 
and just look at the house, ^'in case it should be to let later,'^ 
she persisted in denying him admittance, urging her mistress'g 
present sick state as a reason for keeping out all visitors. 

" Is Mr. Grey still at home ? " then asked the applicant. 

*'Mr. Grey has not been at home," replied Ann Hopley, 
*' My mistress is alone." 

'' Oh, indeed ! Not been here at all ? " 

** No, sir. I don't know how soon he may be commg. He 
is abroad on his travels." 

''What gentleman is it, then, who has been staying here 

Ann Hopley turned inwardly cold. Outwardly she was. 
quietly self-possessed. 

"No gentleman has been here at all, sir. You must be 
mistaking the house for some other one, I think. This is The 


'^ A lady and gentleman and two servants, I understand, are 
living here." 

" It is quite a mistake, sir. My mistress and us two servants 
live here — me and my husband — but that's all. Mr. Grey has 
not been here since we came to the place." 

" Now that's a disappointment to me," cried the stranger. 
" I have lost sight of a friend, named Grey, for the past year or 
two, and was hoping I might find him here. You are sure you 
don't know when Mr. Grey may be expected ? " 

" Quite sure, sir. My mistress does not know, herself." 

The stranger stepped back from the gate to take his de- 
parture. In manner he was very pleasant, and his questions 
had been put with easy courtesy. 

" And you are equally sure the house is not about to be 
vacated ? " 

^^ I feel sure of this much — that if Mrs. Grey had thoughts of 
vacating it, she would have informed me. But, in regard to 
any point connected with the house, sir, you had better apply 
to the landlord, Sir Karl Andinnian." 

" Thank you ; yes, that may be the best plan. Good morn- 
ing," he added, taking off his hat with something of French 

" Don't think she is to be bribed," thought he, as he walked 
away. " At least not easily. Perhaps I may in time work my 
way on to it." 

Ann Hopley, locking the gate with double strength — at least, 
in imagination — passed through the maze without well knowing 
whether she was on her head or her heels, so entirely had terror 
overtaken her. In the height and shape of this man, who had 
been thus questioning her, she fancied she traced a resemblance 
to the one who was watching the house in the night. What if 
they were the same ? 

**The end is coming!" she murmured, clasping her faithful 
hands. ^^As sure as my poor master is alive, the end is 

Not to her master nor to his wife, but to Karl Andinnian, did 
she impart all this. It happened that Karl went over to The 
Maze that evening. Ann Hopley followed him out when he 
departed, and told him of it amidst the trees. 


It startled him in a more painful degree even than it had 
startled her : for, oh, what were her interests in the matter as 
compared with his ? 

'^ Inside the grounds !— watching the house at night ! " he re- 

'' Indeed he was, sir ! " 

''But who is it?'' 

^' I don't know," said Ann. " I hoped it was only some 
thief who had come after the fruit : I thought he might have 
got over from the fields by means of a high ladder. That 
would have been nothing. But if the man who came to the 
gate to-day is the same man, it must mean mischief" 

"You have not told my brother?" 

"How could I dare to tell him, sir? He might watch for 
the man; and, if he came another night, shoot him. That 
would make things worse." 

" With a vengeance," thought Karl. What was to be done ? 
What could he do? Karl Andinnian went out, the question 
beating itself into his brain. Why, there seemed nothing for 
it but to wait and watch. He took off his hat and raised his 
bared head to the summer sky, in which some stars were 
twinkling, wishing he was there, in that heaven above, where 
no pain can come. What with one tribulation and another, 
earth, for him, was becoming a hard resting-place. 



The stillness of the Sabbath morning shed its peace over Fox- 
wood. Within the Court — where the lawns were green, and 
the flowers exhaled their perfume, and a tree here and there 
was already taking its autumn tints — the aspect of peace seemed 
more especially to assert itself 

The windows of the rooms stood open. Within one of them 
breakfast was still on the table, and Miss Blake was seated at 
it. Matins at St. Jerome's had been unusually prolonged ; and 
Sir Karl and Lady Andinnian had taken breakfast when she 


reached home. The Reverend Damon Puff had now come to 
help Mr. Cattacomb ; imparting to St. Jerome's an additional 

While Miss Blake took her breakfast, Lucy went out to her 
flowers. The scent of the mignonette filled the air, the scarlet 
geraniums made the beds brilliant. Lucy wore one of her 
simple muslin dresses, for the weather was still that of summer, 
though the season was not, and the nightingales were no longer 
heard of an evening. Trinity Church boasted a set of sweet- 
toned bells, and they were ringing on the air. When the 
Sacrament was administered — the first Sunday in each month 
— they generally did ring before service. This was the first 
Sunday in September. Lucy stooped to pick some mignonette 
as she listened to the bells. She was getting to look what she 
really was — worn and unhappy. Nothing could be much less 
satisfactory than her life. For the first time for several weeks 
she meant, that day, to stay for the after-service : her mind had 
really been in too great a state of chaos before : but this week 
she had been schooling herself in preparation for it, praying 
and striving to feel tranquil 

Karl came round the terrace from his room and crossed the 
lawn. In his hand he held a most exquisite rose, and offered 
it to her. She thanked him as she took it. In manner they 
were always courteous to one another. 

*• What a lovely day it is ! '' she said. ** So calm and still." 

" And not quite so hot as it was a few weeks ago,'' he replied. 
'^ Those must be Mr. Sumnor's bells." 

" Yes. I wish they rang every Sunday. I think — it may be 
fancy, but I can't help thinking it — that people would go to 
church more heartily if the bells rang for them as they are 
ringing now, instead of calling them with the usual ding-dong." 

''There is something melancholy in the ringing of bells," 
observed Karl, in abstraction. 

'' But, when the heart is in itself melancholy, that of the 
bells brings to it a feeling of consolation," was Lucy's hasty 
answer. And the next moment she felt sorry that she had said 
it. Never, willingly, did she allude to anything that could 
touch on their estrangement. 

*' Talking of church, Lucy," resumed Karl, in a different and 

296 Within the maze. 

almost confidential tone, '* I am beginning to feel really 
annoyed about that place, St. Jerome's. They are going too 
far. I wish you would speak a word of remonstrance to 

*' I — I scarcely like to do so," answered Lucy, after a pause, 
her delicate cheek faintly flushing, for she was conscious that 
she had not dared to talk much about anything to Theresa 
lately, lest Theresa should allude to the subject of The Maze. 
Fearing that, she avoided her when she could, so as to give no 
opportunity for private conversation. " She is so much older 
and wiser than I am " 

^* Wiser?" interrupted Karl. " I think not. In all things, 
except one, you have ten times the good sense that she has. 
That one thing, Lucy, I shall never be able to understand, or 
account for, to my dying day." 

"And, moreover, I was going to add," continued Lucy, 
flushing deeper at the allusion, " I am quite sure that Theresa 
would not heed me, whatever I might say." 

*^ Well, I don't know what is to be done. People are mock- 
ing at St. Jerome's and its frequenters' folly more than I care 
to hear, and blame me for allowing it to go on. I should not 
like to be written to by the Bishop of the Diocese." 

" Ybt^ written to ! " cried Lucy, in surprise. 

" It is within the range of possibility. The place is on the 
Andinnian land. ' 

" I think, were I you, I would speak to Mr. Cattacomb." 

Karl made a wry face. He did not like the man. Moreover 
he fancied — as did Lucy in regard to Miss Blake — that what- 
ever he might say would make no impression upon him. But 
for this, he had spoken to him before. But now that another 
had come and the folly was being doubled, it lay in his duty to 
remonstrate. The whole village gossiped and laughed; Sir 
Adam was furious. Ann Hopley carried the gossip home to 
her master — which, of course, lost nothing in the transit — and 
he abused Karl for not interfering. 

They went to church together, Karl and his wife. It was 
a thinner congregation than usual. Being a grand field-day at 
St. Jerome's, with processions and banners, some of them had 
gone off thither as to a show. Kneeling by her husband's side 


in their pew, Lucy felt the influence of the holy place, and 
peace seemed to steal down upon her. Margaret Sumnor was 
opposite, looking at her : and in Margaret's face there was a 
strange, pitying compassion, for she saw that that other face 
was becoming sadder day by day. 

It was a plain, good sermon : Mr. Sumnor's sermons always 
were so : its subject the blessings promised for the next world ; 
its text, '' And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes." 
The tears rose to Lucy's as she listened. Karl listened too, 
wrapt in the words. Just for the quarter-of-an-hour it lasted — 
the sermons were always short the first Sunday in the month 
— both of them seemed to have passed beyond their cares into 
heaven. It almost seemed to matter little what the trouble of 
this short life on earth might be, with that glorious fruition to 
come hereafter. 

*^ I am going to stay," whispered Lucy, as the service ended. 
A hint to her husband that he might depart without her. 

Karl nodded, but made no other answer. The congregation 
filed out, and still he sat on. Lucy wondered. All in a 
moment it flashed upon her that he also must be going to stay. 
Her face turned crimson : the question, was he fit for it, in- 
voluntarily suggesting itself. 

He did stay. They knelt side by side together and received 
the elements of Christ's holy Ordinance. After that Karl was 
on his knees in his pew until the end, buried, as it seemed, in 
prayer. It was impossible for Lucy to believe that he could 
be living an ill life of any kind at that present time — whatever 
he might have done in the past. 

He held out his arm as they quitted the chirrch, and she 
took it. It was not often that she did so. Thus they walked 
home together, occasionally exchanging a sentence or two. 
Karl went at once to his room, saying he should not take any- 
thing to eat : he had a headache. Miss Blake had " snatched 
a morsel," and had gone out again to hear the children's 
catechism, Hewitt said. One thing must be conceded — she 
was zealous in her duties. 

And so, Lucy was alone. She took a '' morsel " too, and 
went to sit under the acacia tree. When an hour or so had 
passed, Karl came up, and surprised her with tears in her eyes. 


" Is it any new grief? '^ he asked. 

" No," she answered, half lost in the sorrow her thoughts had 
been abandoned to, and neglecting her usual reticence. "I 
was only thinking that I am young to have so much unhappiness 
upon me." 

"We both have enough of that, I expect. I know I have. 
But yours is partly of your own making, Lucy : mine is not." 

" Not of his own making ! " ran her thoughts. But she would 
not say a word to mar the peace which dwelt, or ought to dwell, 
in their hearts that day. 

" That was a good sermon this morning," he resumed, sitting 
down by her on the bench. 

" Very. I almost forgot that we were not close to Heaven. 
I forgot that we had, speaking according to probabilities, years 
and years to live out here first." 

"We shall have to live them out, Lucy, I suppose — by 
Heaven's will. The prospect looks anything but consolatory." 

" I thought you seemed very sad," she remarked in low tones. 
" I had no idea you were going to stay." 


He laid his hand upon her knee, not in any particular affec- 
tion, but to give emphasis to his word. " Sad is not the term 
for it, Lucy. Misery, rather ; dread ; despair — the worst word 
you will. I wished, with intense yearning, that I was in Mr. 
Suranor's heaven — the heaven he described — if only some 
others could go before me, so that I did not leave them 

Lucy wondered of whom he spoke. She thought it must lie 
between herself and Mrs. Grey. Karl had been thinking of his 
poor proscribed brother, for whom the glad world could never 
open its arms freely again. 

"I think what Mr. Sumnor said must be true," resumed 
Lucy. "That the more sorrow we have to endure in this 
world, the brighter will be our entrance to the next. 1 am 
sure he has a great deal of sorrow himself: whenever he 
preaches of it he seems to feel it so deeply." 

Karl appeared not to hear. He was gazing upwards, a look 
of patient pain on his pale face. There were moments — and 
this was one of them — when Lucy's arms and heart yearned to 


encircle him and ask that his love should be hers again. She 
cared for him still — oh, how much ! — and wished she could 
awake to find The Maze, and all the trouble connected with it, 
a hideous dream. 

i They sat on, saying nothing. The birds sang as in spring, 
the trees waved gently overhead, and the velvet lawn was 
grateful to the eye. On the house lay the glad sunshine : not 
a sound of week-day labour, indoors or out, broke the stillness. 
All was essentially peace. Except — except within their own 
wearied breasts. 

The bell of Trinity Church rang out for service, arousing 
Lucy from her reverie. She said she should like to attend it. 

"What! this afternoon?" exclaimed Karl. "You are not 
accustomed to go in the afternoon." 

That was true. The summer heat had been almost unbear- 
able, and Lucy had not ventured to church in it more than 
once a day. 

" It is cooler now," she answered. " And I always like to 
go, if I can, when I have stayed communion." 

But Karl held back from it : rather, Lucy thought, un- 
accountably, for he was ever ready to second any wish of hers. 
He did not seem inclined to go out again, and said, as an 
excuse, that he preferred to retain the impression of the morn- 
irig's sermon on his mind, rather than allow it to give place to 
an inferior one. His head ached badly. 

" I do not ask you to come," said Lucy, gently. "I should 
like to go myself, but I can quite well go alone." 

When she came down with her things on, however, she 
found him ready also ; and they set off together. 

It may be questioned, though, whether Lucy would have 
gone, had she foreseen what was to happen. In the middle of 
the service, whilst the " Magnificat " was being sung, a respect- 
able, staid woman entered the church with an infant in her 
arms. A beautifully dressed infant. Its long white robe was 
elaboratelv embroidered, its delicate blue cloak was of great 
richness, its lace veil was fine and dainty as gossamer. The 
attire, not often seen at Foxwood, caught Lucy's eye, and she 
wondered whose the infant was. It seemed to her that she 
had seen the nurse^s face before, and began to ransack her 


memory* In an instant it flashed on her with a shock — it was 
the servant at The Maze. 

She turned her eyes on her husband : not intentionally, but 
in an uncontrollable impulse. Karl was looking furtively at 
the woman and child — a red flush dyeing his face. Poor 
Lucy's benefit in the afternoon service was over. 

The baby had come to be baptized. Ann Hopley sat down 
on a bench to which she was shown, just under the Andinnian 
pew. Towards the close of the second lesson, the clerk 
advanced to her, and entered on a whispered colloquy, every 
word of which was distinct to Karl and Lucy. 

'^ Have you brought this infant to be christened ? " 

*'To be baptized," replied Ann Hopley. *^ Not christened." 

The clerk paused. *' It's not usual with us to baptize chil- 
dren unless they are so delicate as to render it necessary," said 
he. " We prefer to christen at once." 

'^ But this child is delicate," she answered. " My mistress, 
who is herself still very ill, has grown nervous about it, and 
wishes it to be done. The christening must be left until she 
is better." 

*' It's the baby at The Maze, I think." 

" Yes. Mrs. Grey's." 

The second lesson came to an end. Mr. Sumnor's voice 
ceased, and he stepped out of the reading-desk to perform the 
baptism. Ann Hopley had drawn away the veil, and Lucy saw 
the child's face ; a fair, sweet, delicate little face, calm and placid 
in its sleep. 

The congregation, a very small one always in the afternoon, 
rose and stood on tiptoe to see and hear, Mr. Sumnor, 
standing at the font, took the child in his arms. 

'' Name this child." 

^' Charles," was the audible and distinct reply of Ann Hopley. 
And Lucy Andinnian turned red and white ; she thought it 
was, so to say, named after her husband. As indeed was the 

The child was brought back to the bench again ; and the 
afternoon service went on to its close. There was no sermon. 
When Lucy rose from her knees, the woman and baby had 
departed. Karl offered her his arm as they quitted the churchy 


but she would not take it. They walked home side by side, 
saying never a word to each other. 

^^ That v/as the reason why he wanted to keep me away from 
church this afternoon ! " was Lucy's indignant thought. *' And 
to dress it up like that ! How, how, shall I go on, and bear it." 

But Lucy was mistaken. Karl had known no more about it 
than she, and was struck with astonishment to see Ann Hopley 
come in. It arose exactly as the woman had stated. Durin-g 
the night the child had seemed so ill that its mother had 
become nervously uneasy because it was not baptized, and 
insisted upon its being brought to church that afternoon. 

Meanwhile Ann Hopley had hurried homewards. Partly to 
get out before the rest and avoid observation, partly because 
she wanted to be back with her mistress. After passing the 
Court gates, in traversing the short space of road between 
them and The Maze, she encountered Miss Blake coming home 
from St. Jerome's. Miss Blake, seeing a baby sumptuously 
attired, and not at the moment recognizing Ann Hopley in her 
bonnet, crossed the road to inquire whose child it was. Then 
she saw it was thes ervant at The Maze : but she stopped all 
the same. 

" I should like to take a peep at the baby, nurse." 

" It's asleep, ma'am, and I am in a hurry," was the answer, 
given in all truthfulness, not in discourtesy; for it must be 
remembered that Ann Hopley had no reason to suspect that 
this lady took any special interest in affairs at The Maze. ^'It 
slept all through its baptism." 

" Oh, it has been baptized, has it ! At Mr. Sumnor's 
church ? " 

"Yes, at Mr. Sumnor's. There is no other church in the 
place but that," added the woman, totally ignoring St. Jerome's, 
but not thinking to give offence thereby. 

Miss Blake put aside the lace and looked at the sleeping 
baby. ^^ What is its name, nurse ? " 

^' Charles.'^ 

" Oh," said Miss Blake, the same notion striking her, as to 
the name, that had struck Lucy. "It is Mr. Grey's name, I 
suppose — or something like it." 

?'No, It is not Mr, Grey's name," replied the woman. 


" Who is the baby considered hke ? " went on Miss Blake, 
still regarding it. ^^ Its father or its mother ? " 

" It^s not much like anybody that I see, ma'am. The child's 
too young to show any likeness yet." 

"I declare that I see a likeness to Sir Karl Andinnian," 
cried Miss Blake, speaking partly upon impulse. For, in look- 
ing whether she could trace this likeness, her fancy seemed to 
show her that it was there. '^ What a strange thing, nurse ! " 

With one startled gaze into Miss Blake's eyes, Ann Hopley 
went off in a huff. The suggestion had not been palatable 
to her. 

" If he's like Sir Karl, I must never bring him abroad again, 
lest by that means suspicion should come to my master," she 
thought, as she took the key from her pocket, and let herself 
in. " But I don't believe it can be : for I'm sure there's not a 
bit of resemblance between the two brothers." 

" How plain it all is ! " sighed Miss Blake, meekly regarding 
the cross upon her ivory Prayer-book as she went over to the 
Court. " And that ridiculously simple Lucy does not see it ! 
Bartimeus was blind, and so is she. He could see nothing 
until his eyes were opened : her eyes have been opened and 
yet she will not see I " 

No, Miss Blake, neither could the self-righteous Pharisee 
see, when he went into the Temple to thank God that he was 
better than other men, and especially better than the poor 

St. Jerome's was prospering. It had taken — as Tom Pepp 
the bell-ringer phrased it — a spurt. A rich maiden lady of 
uncertain age, fascinated by the Reverend Guy Cattacomb's 
oratory and spectacles, came over once a day in her brougham 
from Basham, and always put a substantial coin into the offertory- 
bag during the service. 

The Reverend Damon Puff found favour too. He had a 
beautiful black moustache, which he was given to stroke lovingly 
at all sorts of unseasonable times ; his hair was parted down 
the middle carefully, back and front, and he had an interesting 
lisp : otherwise he was a harmless sort of young man, devotedly 
attentive to the ladies, and not overburdened with brains. 
Mr. Puff had taken up his abode for the present at Basham, 


and came over in the omnibus. Two omnibus-loads of fair 
worshippers arrived now daily : there was frightful rushing 
amongst them to get into the one that contained the parson. 

But, flourishing though St. Jerome's was, people were talking 
about it in anything but a reverend manner. Sir Karl Andin- 
nian was blamed for allowing it to go on unchecked — as he 
told his wife. Had Karl been a perfectly free man, unswayed 
by that inward and ever-present dread, he had certainly put a 
stop to it long ago, or obliged Farmer Truefit to do so ; but as 
it was, he had done nothing. Not a single male person 
attended the services ; and most of the ladies who did so were 
in their teens, or not very much beyond them. Karl felt that 
this was not as it should be : but he had made no attempt to 
alter it. The sensitive fear of making enemies swayed him. 
very much. Not fear for his own sake, but lest it should in 
some way draw observation on The Maze and on him whom it 
contained. But Karl found he must do something. 

A comic incident happened one day. There came a lady to 
Foxwood Court, sending in her card as " Mrs. Brown," and 
asking to see Sir Karl Andinnian. Sir Karl found she was 
from Basham. She had come over to pray him, she said with 
tears in her eyes, to put a stop to the goings-on at St. Jerome's 
and shut up the place. She had two daughters who had been 
drawn into its vortex and she could not draw them out again. 
Twice and three times every day of their lives did they come 
over to Foxwood, by rail, omnibus, or on foot; then* whole 
thoughts and days were absorbed by St. Jerome's : by the 
services, by cleaning the church, by Mr. Cattacomb's lectures 
at home, or in helping Mr. Puff to teach the children. 

Sir Karl replied that he did not know what he could do in 
the matter, and intimated very courteously that the more 
effectual remedy in regard to the Miss Browns would be for 
Mrs. Brown to keep the young ladies at home. They would 
not be kept at home, Mrs. Brown said, with a burst of emotion, 
they had learnt to set her at defiance : and — she begged to hint 
to Sir Karl — that in her opinion it was not quite the right thing 
for a young girl to be closeted with a young man for half-an- 
hour at a time, under the plea of confession, though the man 
did write himself priest. What on earth had they to confess, 


Mrs. Brown wanted to know, becoming a little heated with the 
argument : if they would confess how undutiful they were to 
her, their mother, perhaps some good might come of it. 

Well, this occurred. Sir Karl got rid of Mrs. Brown ; but 
he could not close his ears to the pubhc chatter ; and he was 
conscious that something or other ought to be done, or 
attempted. He could not see why people should expect that 
it lay in his hands, and he certainly did not know whether he 
could effect anything, even with all the goodwill in the world. 
Mr. Cattacomb might civilly laugh at him. Not knowing 
whether any power lay with him, or not, he felt inclined to put 
the question to the only lawyer Foxwood contained — Mr. St. 

But oh, what was this petty grievance to the great trouble 
ever lying upon him ? As nothing. The communication made 
to him by Ann Hopley, of the night watches she had seen, of 
the stranger who afterwards presented himself at the gate of The 
Maze with his questions, was so much addition to his torment. 
Just about this time, too, it came to his knowledge through 
Hewitt, that inquiries were being made as to The Maze. 
Whispered inquiries, not apparently with any particular 
object ; more in the way of idle gossip. Who was making 
them ? Karl could not learn. Hewitt did not know who, but 
was sure of the fact. The story told by Mrs. Chaffen, of the 
gentleman she had seen at The Maze the night she entered it, 
and " which she was at her wits' end to know whether he were 
a ghost, or not," was circulating round the village and reached 
Karl's ears, to his intense annoyance and dismay. Added to 
all this, was the doubt that lay within him, as to whether Smith 
the agent was PhiHp Salter, and what his course in the matter 
should be. In his own mind he felt persuaded that it was 
Salter, and no other ; but the persuasion was scarcely sufficient 
to induce him to act. He felt the danger of speaking a word 
of accusation to Smith wrongfully — the danger it might bring 
to his brother — and therefore he, in this, vacillated and hesitated, 
and did nothing. 

Do not reproach Karl Andinnian with being an unstable or 
vacillating man. He was nothing of the sort. But he was 
living under exceptional circumstances, and there seemed to be 


risk to his unfortunate brother on the left hand and on the right 
If discovery should chance to be brought about through any 
rash step of his, Karl's remorse would never cease to rack him 
to the end of his embittered life. 



Lawyer St. Henry sat at his well-spread breakfast-table. He 
was a little man with a bald head and a good-natured face, who 
enjoyed his breakfast as well as all his other meals. Since his 
nieces had considered it necessary to their spiritual welfare to 
attend Matins at St. Jerome's the lawyer had been condemned 
to breakfast alone. The sun shone on the street, and Mr. St. 
Henry sat in a room facing it. Through the wire blinds he 
could see all the passings and repassings of his neighbours; 
which he very well liked to do ; as well as the doings of 
Paradise Row opposite., 

'"^^ Hallo !" he cried, catching sight of a face at Mrs. Jinks's 
parlour window : *' Cattacomb's not gone out this morning ! 
Puff must have come over early to officiate. Thinks he'll take 
it easy, I suppose, now he has an underling. No blame to 
him, either. The girls will be sold for oncCc No one goes 
down with 'em like Cattacomb." 

Laughing a little at the thought, he helped himself to some 
tempting-looking cutlet surrounded with mushrooms. This 
being nearly despatched, he had leisure to look abroad again 
and continue his mental comments. 

*' There goes the doctor : he's out early this morning. Going 
to see old Etheridge, perhaps. Wonder how the old fellow is. 
And there's Mother Jinks taking in a sweetbread. Must be for 
the parson's breakfast. Sweetbreads are uncommonly good, 
too : I'll have one myself to-morrow morning if it can be had 
Why, here comes Sir Karl Andinnian ! He is out early, too. 
That young man looks to me as though he had some care upon 
him. A nice countenance \ very : and if — I declare he is 
coming here ! What on earth can he want ? " 

Within the Maze. 20 


Sir Karl Andmnian was ringing the door-bell. It has been 
already said that the lawyer's offices were in Basham, for which 
place he generally started as soon as his breakfast was over. 
Therefore, if any client wished to see him at Foxwood, it had 
to be early in the morning or late in the evening. This Avas 
known and understood. 

Sir Karl was shown in, Mr. St. Henry glancing at his break- 
fast-table and the three or fom* used plates upon it. He had 
finished now, and they sat down together at the window. Sir 
Karl, not to detain him unnecessarily, entered at once upon 
the question he had come to ask. Had he, or had he not, 
power to do anything about St. Jerome's ? And the lawyer 
laughed a little j for St. Jerome's afforded him fun rather than 

" Of course, Sir Karl, if Truefit chose to warn them off the 
land, he could do it," was the lawyer's reply, " Not without 
notice, though, I think : I don't know what the agreement was. 
As to yourself — well, I am not clear whether you could do any- 
thing : I should like to see Truefit's lease before giving an 
opinion. But, if they were shut out of St. Jerome's to-day, 
they'd contrive to start another place to-morrow.'' 

*^ That is quite likely," said Karl. 

*' My advice to you is this. Sir Karl : don't bother yourself 
about it," continued the easy-going lawyer. ^^ People expect 
you to interfere ? Never mind that : let them expect. The 
thing will die away of itself when winter comes on. Once the 
frost and snow set in, the girls, silly monkeys, won't go trapesing 
to St. Jerome's; neither will they come junketing over by 
omnibusfuls from Basham. Wait and shut it up then. If jou 
attempt to do it now, you will meet with wide opposition ; by 
waiting, you may do it almost without any at all." 

" You really think so ? " 

"I am nearly sure so," said the hearty lawyer. "There's 
nothing like bad weather for stopping chivalric expeditions. 
But for the constant sunshine the summer has given us, St. 
Jerome's would not have been the success it is." 

" They have dressed Tom Pepp in a conical cap, and put a 
red cross all down his back," said Sir Karl. 

The lawyer broke into a laugh. "/ know," he said. "I 


hear of the vagaries from my nieces. It's fun for me. They 
go in for them wholesale, and come home with their heads full 
of the nonsense." 

"But it's not religion, Mr. St. Henry.'' 

" Bless me, no. Religion ? The girls may give it that 
name : and perhaps one or two amongst them may be earnest 
enough in thinking it so ; the rest are only after Cattacomb." 

" There's another one now, I hear. One Puff." 

" And a fine puff of wind he is. Got no more brains than a 
gander. I'll see Truefit and inquire what agreement he made 
with them, if you like, Sir Karl ; but I should certainly recom- 
mend you to leave the matter alone a little longer." 

Sir Karl thought he would accept the advice ; and got up to 
leave. He often met Truefit on the land, and could take an 
opportunity of questioning him himself. As he stood for a 
moment at the window, there passed down the middle of the 
street a stranger, walking slowly ; that is, a stranger to Karl. 
It was Mr. Strange. 

Now it happened that Karl had never yet seen this man — at 
least, he had never noticed him. For the detective, being 
warned by Grimley that Sir Karl had, or seemed to have, some 
reason for screening Salter — had kept himself out of Sir Karl's 
way. He thought it would not conduce at all to his success to 
let Sir Karl know he was down there on the scent. Therefore, 
whenever he had observed Sir Karl coming along — and he had 
kept his eyes sharply open — he had popped into a shop, or 
drawn behind a hedge, or got over a stile into another field. 
And Karl, in his mind's abstraction — for it was almost always lost 
in its own fear and pain — had not thought of looking out gratui- 
tously for strangers. 

But, standing up at the lawyer's window, the street close 
before him, he could not fail to observe those who passed up 
and down : and his attention was at once drawn to this man. 

" Who is that ? " he asked. 

" That ! oh, that's a Mr. Strange," said the lawyer, laughing 
again — and in his laugh this time there was something sig- 
nificant. ^^ At least, that's his name here'^ 

'* And not elsewhere ? " 

^'I fancy not." 


^^ Is he staying at Foxwood ? What is he doing here ? " 

" He is certainly staying at Foxwood. As to his business, I 
conclude it is something in the private detective line^ Sir Karl." 

Mr. Strange ; whose attention in passing had been directed 
to some matter on the other side of the way, and not to the 
lawyer's window, so that he did not know he was being 
watched ; had halted a little lower down to speak to the land- 
lord of the Red Lion. All in a moment, as Karl looked at 
him, the idea flashed into his mind that this man bore a strong 
resemblance to the description given by xAnn Hopley of the 
man who had invaded The Maze. The idea came to him in 
the self-same moment that the words of the lawyer fell on his 
ears—'* His business, I conclude, is something in the private 
detective line." What with the notion, and what with the 
words, Karl Andinnian fell into an inward tumult that caused 
his hearths blood to stop and then course wildly on. Business 
at Foxwood, connected with the detectives, must have reference 
to his brother, and to him alone. 

" A slight-made gentleman with a fair face and light curly 
hair, looking about thirty," had been Ann Hopley's description. 
It answered in every particular to the man Karl was gazing at ; 
gazing till he watched him out of sight. Lawyer St. Henry, 
naturally observant, thought his guest stared after the man as 
though he held some peculiar interest in him. 

*'Do you know who that man really is, Mr. St. Henry?" 

''Well, I'll tell you. Sir Karl. No reason why I should not, 
for I have not been told to keep it a secret. Some little time 
back, my nieces grew full of the new lodger at Mrs. Jinks's ; 
they were talking of him incessantly. A gentleman reading 
divinity " 

" Why, that's Mr. Cattacomb," interrupted Sir Karl. " He 
lodges at Mrs. Jinks's." 

"Not that ladies' idiot," cried the lawyer, somewhat roughly. 
" I beg your pardon. Sir Karl, but the Reverend Guy some- 
times puts n^e out of patience. This man has the upper rooms, 
Cattacomb the lower " 

" But I — I thought that w^as a mere boy : a lad at his 
studies," reiterated Karl, in some perplexity. " I assumed him 
to be a pupil of Cattacomb's." 


'' It is the man you have just watched down the street, Sir 
Karl. Well, to go on. My nieces were always talking of 
this new gentleman, a Mr. Strange, who had come to Foxwood 
to get up his health, and to read up for some divinity examina- 
tion. That was their account. They said so much about him 
that I grew curious myself. It was a new face, you see, Sir 
Karl, and girls go wild over that. One morning, when I was 
starting for the office, t^e gig at the door, Jane ran out to me. 
* Uncle,' she said, ^ that's Mr. Strange coming down Mrs. 
Jinks's steps now : you can see him if you look out.' I did 
look out, Sir Karl, and saw the gentleman you have just seen 
pass. His face struck me at once as one that I was familiar 
with, though at the moment I could not tell where I had seen 
him. Remembrance came to me whilst I looked — and I knew 
him for an officer connected with the detective force at 
Scotland Yard." 

Karl drew a long breath. He was listening greedily. 

"About a year ago," resumed the lawyer, "my agent in 
London, Mr. Blair, had occasion to employ a detective upon 
some matter he was engaged in. I was in London for a few 
days at that time, and saw the man twice at Blair's— and knew 
him again now. It was this same Mr. Strange." 

" And you say Strange is not his right name ? " 

" No, it's not." 

" What is the right one ? " 

" Well, I can't tell you the right one, Sir Karl, for I cannot 
remember it. I am sure of one thing — that it was not Strange. 
It was a longer name, and I think rather a peculiar name ; but 
I can't hit upon it. He must be down here on some private 
business, and has no doubt his own reasons for keeping incog. 
I recollect Blair told me that he was one of the cleverest 
officers in the detective force." 

" Has he recognized you ? " 

" He could not recognize me," said Mr. St. Henry. " I 
don't suppose he ever saw me to notice me. Each time that 
he called on Blair, it happened that I was in the front office 
with the clerks when he passed through it. He was not likely 
to observe me." 

" You have not spoken to him, then ? " 


"Not I." 

" And — you don't know what his business here may be." 

" Not at all. Can't guess at it. It concerns neither you 
nor me, Sir Karl, and therefore I have not scrupled to tell you 
so much. Of course you will not repeat it again. If he 
chooses to remain unknown here, and pass himself off for a 
student of divinity — doubtless for sufficient reasons — I should 
not be justified in proclaiming that he is a London detective, 
and so possibly ruin his game." 

Sir Karl made a motion of acquiescence. His brain was 
whirling in no measured degree. He connected the presence 
of this detective at Foxwood with the paragraph that had 
appeared in the newspaper touching the escaped convict from 
Portland Island. 

' " Would there — would there be any possibility of getting to 
know his business ? " he dreamily asked. 

> '' Not the slightest, I should say, unless he chooses directly 
to disclose it. Why ? You cannot have any interest in it, I 
presume, Sir Karl, whatever it may be ? " 

^* No, no ; certainly not," replied Sir Karl, awaking to the 
fact that he was on dangerous ground. " One is apt to get 
curious on hearing of business connected with detectives," he 
added, laughing ; " as interested as one does in a good novel." 

'' Ay, true," said the lawyer, unsuspiciously, 

" He is lodging at Mrs. Jinks's, is he ? " absently remarked 
Karl, turning to depart ; and inwardly marvelling how he 
could have caught up the notion that the person there was 
only a lad, a pupil of Cattacomb's. 

" At Mrs. Jinks's, Sir Karl : has her drawing-room. Wonder 
how the Reverend Guy would feel if he knew the man over his 
head was a 'cute detective officer ? " 

'' I suppose the officer cannot be looking after 7^/;;^," jested 
Sir Karl. " St. Jerome's is the least sound thing we know of 
at Foxwood" 

The lawyer laughed heartily as he attended Sir Karl to the 
door ; at which Mr. St. Henry's gig was now waiting to take 
him into Basham. 

It was not a hot morning, but Karl Andinnian took off his 
hat repeatedly on the way home to wipe his brow. The 


dreadful catastrophe he had been fearing for his unfortunate 
brother seemed to be drawing ominously near. 

*'But for that confounded Smith, Adam might have been 
away before now/' he groaned. '^ I know he might. Smith " 

And there Karl stopped ; stopped as though his speech had 
suddenly left him. For a new idea had darted into his mind, 
and he halted to ponder it. 

Was the detective officer down here to look after Philip 
Salter ? — and not after Adam at all ? 

A conviction that it must be so took possession of him ; and 
in the first flush of it the relief was inexpressibly great. But 
he remembered again the midnight watcher of The Maze and 
the morning visit following it : and his hope fell back to zero. 
That this was the same man who had watched there could 
remain no doubt whatever. 

Passing into his own room, Karl sat down and strove to 
think the matter out. He could arrive at no certain conclusion. 
One minute he felt sure the object was his brother ; the next, 
that it was only Salter. 

But, in any case, allowing that it was Salter, there must be 
danger to Adam. If this cunning London detective were to 
^^et into The Maze premises again and see the prisoner there, all 
would be over. The probability was, that he was personally 
acquainted with the noted criminal Adam Andinnian : and it 
might be, that he had gained a suspicion that Adam Andinnian 
was alive. 

One thing Karl could not conceal from himself — and it 
brought him a rush of remorse. If the detective had come 
down after Salter, he — he, Karl — must have been the means of 
bringing him there. 

But for that unpleasant consciousness, he would have gone 
straight off to Smith the agent, and told him of the trouble that 
was threatening Adam, and have said, " What shall we do in 
it j how screen him ? " But he did not dare. He did not dare 
to make a move or stir a step that might bring Smith and the 
detective into contact with each other. He could not quite 
understand why, if Smith were really Salter, the detective had 
not already pounced upon him : but he thought it quite likely 
that Smith might be keeping himself out of sight. In short, 


the thoughts and surmises that crossed and recrossed Karl's 
brain, some probable enough, others quite improbable, were 
legion. Not for the world, if he could help it, would he aid — 
further than he had perhaps already unhappily aided — in 
denouncing Salter ; and knowing what he had done, he could 
not face the man. He had never intended to harm him. 

So there Karl was, overwhelmed with this new perplexity, 
and not able to stir in it. He saw not what he could do. To 
address the detective himself, and say Whom are you after? 
would be worse than folly. Of all people he, Karl Andinnian, 
must keep aloof from him. It might be that there was only 
a suspicion about Adam's being alive ; that they were trying to 
find out whether it was so or not. For Karl to interfere or 
show interest would only help it on. 

But this suspense was well-nigh intolerable. Karl could not 
live under it. Something he must do. If only he could set 
the question at rest, as to which of the two criminals the de- 
tective was after, it would be a good deal gained. And he could 
only do that by applying to Mr. Burtenshaw, It was not 
certain that he would, but there was a chance that he might. 

Lady Andinnian was in her little sitting-room upstairs, when 
she heard Sir Karl's footstep. He entered without knocking : 
which was very unusual. For they had grown ceremonious with 
one another since the estrangement, and knocked at doors and 
asked permission to enter, as strangers. Lucy was adding up 
her housekeeping bills. 

*' I am going to London, Lucy. Some business has arisen 
that I am anxious about, and I must go up at once." 

" Business with Plunkett and Plunkett ? " she asked, a sHght 
sarcasm in her tone, though Karl detected it not, as she 
remembered the plea he had urged for the journey once before. 

** No, not with Plunkett and Plunkett. The business, though, 
is the same that has been troubling my peace all the summer. 
I think I shall be home to-night, Lucy : but if I cannot see the 
person I am going up to see, I may have to wait in town until 
to-morrow. Should the last train not bring me down, you will 
know the reason." 

" Of course your movements are your own. Sir Karl." 

He sighed a little, and stood looking from the window. The 


first train he could catch would not go by for nearly an hour, 
so he had ample time to spare. Lucy spoke. 

" I was going to ask you for some money. I have scarcely 
enough, I think, for these bills/' 

*^ Can you wait until I return, Lucy? 1 have not much more 
in the house than I shall want. Or shall I give you a cheque ? 
Hewitt can go to the bank at Basham and cash it.'' 

^^Oh, I can wait quite well There is no hurry for a day or two/' 

*^ You shall have it to-morrow, in any case. If I stay away as 
long as that I shall be sure to return during banking hours, and 
will get out at Basham and draw some money." 

" Thank you.'' 

*' Good-bye, Lucy." 

She held out her hand in answer to his, and wished him 
good-bye in return. He kept it for a minute in his, stooped, 
and kissed her cheek. 

It brought a rush of colour to her face, but she said nothing. 
Only drew away her hand, bent over her figures again, and 
began adding them up steadily. He passed round to his 
chamber to put a few things into a hand-bag in case he had to 
stay away for the night. 

^ Then he went down to his room and penned a few lines to 
Adam, entreating him to be unusually cautious. The note was 
enclosed in an outer envelope, addressed to Mrs. Grey. He 
rang the bell for Hewitt, and proceeded to lock his desk. 

'* I want you to go over to The Maze, Hewitt," he said in a 
low tone — and had got so far when, happening to raise his 
eyes, he saw it was Giles and not Hewitt who had entered. Karl 
had his wits about him, and Hewitt came in at the moment. 

" Hewitt, I want you to step over to The Maze and inquire 
whether the plumbers hare been there yet. There's something 
wrong with a pipe. Ask the servants at the same time how 
their mistress is getting on. And " 

Giles had stood gaping and listening. Karl broke off to bid 
him look for his umbrella. 

*^ No message, Hewitt, and no answer," breathed his master, 
as he handed him the note. ** Put it in your pocket." 

" All right, sir," nodded Hewitt, and was away before Giles 
came back with the umbrella. And Karl got off at last 


Perhaps Mr. Burtenshaw was astonished, perhaps not, to see 
Sir Karl Andinnian enter that same afternoon. He, the de- 
tective, was poring over his papers, as usual, but he turned from 
them to salute his visitor. 

" Will you take a seat, Sir Karl, for two minutes. After that^ 
I am at your service." 

*^ You know me, then, Mr. Burtenshaw ! " exclaimed Karl.. 
! " The man who happened to come into the room with 
Grimley, the last time you were here, sir, said you were Sir 
Karl Andinnian," replied the officer, without scruple. ^* Take 
a seat, sir, pray." 

Mr. Burtenshaw placed four or five letters, already written, 
within their envelopes, directed, and stamped them. Then he 
quitted the room, probably to send them to the post, came in 
again, and drew a chair in front of Karl. '' He is looking 
worse than ever," was the mental summary of the detective. 
" But what a nice face it is ! " 

Ay, it was. The pale, beautiful features, their refined expres- 
sion, the thoughtfulness in the sweet grey eyes, and the strange 
sadness that marked every lineament, made a picture that was 
singularly attractive. Karl had one glove off; and the diamond 
and opal ring, that he always wore in remembrance of his 
father, flashed in the sunlight. For the buff blinds were not 
down to-day. He had wished to give the ring back to his 
brother, when he found he had no right to it himself, but Adam 
had insisted upon his keeping it and wearing it, lest " the world 
might inquire where the ring was gone to." Another little 
deceit, as it always seemed to Karl. 

" I have called here, Mr. Burtenshaw, to ask you to answer 
me a question honestly. Have you — stay though," he broke 
off. *' As you know me, I presume you know where I live ?" 

" Quite well, Sir Karl. I was at the Court once in Sir Joseph 
Andinnian's time." 

'^Ay; of course you would know it. Now for my question. 
Have you sent a detective officer down to Foxwood after Philip 
Salter ? " 

" I have not," replied Mr. Burtenshaw, with, Karl thought, 
a stress upon the pronoun. 

" But you know that one is there ? " 


"Why do you ask me this?" cried Mr. Burtensnaw, making 
no (direct reply. 

*^ Because I have reason to beheve, in fact to know, that a 
detective officer is at Foxwood, and I wish to ascertain what 
he is there for. I presume it can only be to search for Philip 

" And what if it were ? '^ asked Mr. Burtenshaw. 

"Nothing. Nothing that could in any way affect you. I 
want to ascertain it, yes or no, for my own private and indi- 
vidual satisfaction." 

" Well, you are right, Sir Karl. One of our men has gone 
down there with that object." 

Karl paused. " I suppose / have led to it," he said. " That 
is, that it has been done in consequence, of the inquiries I 
made of you." 

"Of those you made of Grimley, sir, not of me. I had 
nothing to do with sending Tatton down " 

Karl caught up the name. " Tatton, do you call him ? " he 
interrupted. And Mr. Burtenshaw nodded. 

"He calls himself * Strange ' down there," said Karl. 

" Oh, does he ? He knows what he is about, Sir Karl, rely 
upon it." 

" Who did send him down ? '' 

"Scotland Yard. It appears that Grimley, taking up the 
idea, through you, that he had found a clue to the retreat of 
Salter, went to Scotland Yard, announced that Salter was in 
hiding somewhere in the neighbourhood of Foxwood, and asked 
that k search should be set on foot for him." 

Karl sat thinking. If the man Tatton went down after 
Philip Salter, what brought him within the grounds of The 
Maze, watching the house at night? Whence also that en- 
deavour to get in by day, and his questions to Ann Hopley ? 
Was it Tatton who had done this ? — or were there two men, 
Strange and Tatton ? 

" What sort of a man is Tatton ? " he asked aloud. " Slight 
and fair ? " 

"Slight and fair; about thirty years of age. Sir Karl. Curly 

"They must be the same," mentally decided Karl. "I 


presume," he said, "that Tatton must have started on this 
expedition soon after I was here last ? " 

" The following day, I think.'' 
• " Then he has been at Foxwood some time. More than 
long enough to have found Salter if Salter's there, Mr. Burten- 

'* That depends upon circumstances," replied the detective, 
with a wary smile. " I could tell you of a case where an 
escaped man was being looked after for twelve months before 
he was unearthed — and he had been close at hand all the time. 
They have as many ruses as a fox, these fugitives." 

" Nevertheless, as Tatton has not yet found Salter, I should 
consider it a tolerably sure proof that Salter is not at Foxwood." 

Mr. Burtenshaw threw a penetrating gaze at his visitor. 
*' Will you undertake to give me your word. Sir Karl, that you 
do not know Philip Salter to be at Foxwood ? " 

*^ On my word and honour, I do not know him to be there," 
said Karl, decisively. " I should think he is not there." 

He spoke only in accordance with his opinion. The con- 
viction had been gaining upon him the last few minutes that 
he must have been in error in suspecting Smith to be the man. 
How else was it, if he were the man, that Tatton had not found 
him ? 

" Salter is there," said the detective — and Karl pricked up 
his ears at the decisive assertion. " We have positive infor- 
mation from Tatton that he is on his trail : I am not sure but 
he has seen him. For the first week or two of Tatton's sojourn 
there, he could discover no trace whatever of the man or his 
hiding-place ; but accident gave him a clue, and he has found 
both : found his hiding-place and found the man/' 

" Then, why does he not lay hands upon him ? " returned 
Karl, veering round again to the impression that it must be 
Smith after all. 

" It is only a question of time. Sir Karl. No doubt he has 
good reasons for delay. To know where a man is hiding may 
be one thing ; to capture him quite another. Too great haste 
sometimes loses the game." 

*' Tatton is going to remain at Foxwood, then ? '* 

** Until the capture is accomplished. Certainly." 


Karl's heart sank within him at the answer. AVhilst Tatton 
was delaying his capture of Smith, he might be getting a clue 
to another escaped fugitive down there — Adam Andinnian. 
Nay, had he not already the clue ? Might not this very delay 
be caused by some crafty scheme to take both criminals at 
once, and kill two birds with one stone ? He asked one more 

" Mr. Burtenshaw, how was it that suspicion was directed at 
all to Foxwood ? " 

" Grimley took up the notion after your second visit here, 
Sir Karl, that you had a suspicion of Salter yourself. I thought 
you understood this. Grimley fancied you were in the habit 
of seeing some one whom you believed, but did not feel quite 
sure, to be Salter. And he judged that the individual, whether 
Salter or not, must be in hiding near your place — Foxwood." 

Ay ; Karl saw how it was. He had done this. He and no 
other had brought this additional danger upon his ill-fated 
brother, whom he would willingly have given his own life to 

There was nothing more to be asked of Mr. Burtenshaw : 
he had learnt all he came to hear. And Sir Karl, with his 
load of care, returned to Foxwood by the evening train. 



Commotion at Mrs. Jinks's. Another afternoon kettle-drum 
on a grand scale. The two pastors, and more guests than 
could squeeze into the parlour. All the Foxwood ladies and 
an omnibus-load or two from Basham. 

Mr. Strange sat in his drawing-room on a three-legged stool : 
the one that supported Mrs. Jinks's tub on washing days. His 
chairs had been borrowed. He had good-naturedly given up 
every one of them : so Mrs. Jinks introduced the wooden stool 
as a substitute. These crowded meetings below had amused 
him at first ; but he was growing a little tired of the bustle and 
the noise. Every time the street-door was knocked at, it shook 


his room ; the talkmg below could be heard almost as plainly 
as though he were taking part in it. Still it made a little 
diversion in Mr. Strange's solitary existence, if only to watch 
the arrival of the articles for the feast, and to inhale the aroma 
of the coffee, made in the huge kitchen kettle. The supplies 
did not concern Mr. Cattacomb : his gentle flock took that 
on themselves, cost and all. There was no lack of good things, 
but rather a superabundance. Since the Reverend Mr. Puff 
had come to augment the clerical force, the contributions had 
been almost too profuse. So that every one connected with 
the entertainment was in the seventh heaven of enjoyment and 
good-humour : Mrs. Jinks excepted. 

Perched on the hard stool, Mr. Strange, for want of other 
employment, had noted the dainties as they came in. The 
wisest of us must occasionally unbend. A basket of muffins, 
full to the brim ; eleven sorts of jam. Since it was discovered 
that the Reverend Guy loved preserves to satiety, the assort- 
ments had never failed. Thirteen sorts of biscuits, trays of 
cake, pots of marmalade and honey, rich fruits of tempting 
colours, chocolate creams, candied oranges, exquisite flowers. 

Mr. Strange grew tired of looking. His head ached with 
the noise, his eyes with the splendour of the ladies' dresses. 
For the company was arriving now in quick succession. 

There had arisen a slight, a very slight feeling of displeasure 
connected with Mr. Cattacomb. That zealous divine had 
been met four or five times walking with Mr. Moore's third 
daughter, Jemima. At the last lecture he had distinctly been 
seen manoeuvring to place the young lady next to him. It 
gave offence. Whilst he belonged to them all, all adored him ; 
but let him once single out one of the flock for favour above 
the others, and woe betide his popularity. "And that little 
idiot of a Jemima Moore, too, who had not two ideas in her 
vain head ! " as Jane St. Henry confidentially remarked. How- 
ever, the Reverend Guy, upon receiving a hint from Miss 
Blake that he was giving umbrage, vowed and protested that it 
was all accident and imagination : he hardly knew Miss 
Jemima from her sisters. So peace was restored, and the 
kettle-drum grew out of it. 

^' I must have my chop all the same, Mrs. Jinks/' said Mr. 


Strange to the widow ; who had come upstairs to ask for the 
loan of his sugar-tongs, and looked very red and excited 
over it. 

" In course, sir, you shall have it. It might be ten minutes 
later, sir, than ordinary, but I do hope you'll excuse it, sir, if it 
is. You see how Fm drove with 'em." 

'* I see that a large company seems to be arriving." 

^^ Company!" returned Mrs. Jinks, her temper exploding; 
'' I don't know how they'll ever get inside the room. I shall 
have to borrow a form from the school next door but one, and 
put it in the passage for some of 'em ; and when that and the 
chairs is filled, the rest must stand. Never as long as I live 
will I take in an unmarried parson-gent again, if he's one of 
this ere new sort that gets the ladies about him all day in 
church and gives drums out of it. Hark at the laughing ! 
Them two parsons be in their glory." 

" The ladies must be fond of drums, I should think, by their 
getting them up so frequently," remarked Mr. Strange. 

" Drat the hussies ! — they'd be fond of fifes too, if it brought 
'em round Cattakin," was the widow's uncomplimentary re- 
joinder. " Better for 'em if they'd let the man alone to drink 
his tea in quiet and write his sermons — which I don't believe 
ever does get writ, seeing he never has a minute to himself. 
Hark at that blessed door ! " she continued ; and indeed the 
knocking was incessant. '' If they'd only turn the handle, they 
could come in of theirselves. I said so to the Miss St. Henrys 
one cleaning day, that I had been called to it six times while 
scrubbing down the kitchen stairs, and the young ladies 
answered me that they wouldn't come in to Mr. Cattakin's 
without knocking, for the world." 

'* I suppose not," said Mr. Strange, slightly laughing. 

" Hang that knocker again. There it goes I And me with 
all the drum on my shoulders. You should see the muffins 
we've got to toast and to butter downstairs, sir; your conscience 
'ud fail you, Betsy Chaffen has come in to help me, and she 
and the girl are at it like steam. I'm afeard that there stool's 
terrible hard for you, Mr. Strange, sir ! " broke off the widow, 
in condolence. 

*^ It's not quite as soft as velvet," was the reply. " But I'm 


glad to oblige you : and I am going out presently. Bring up 
my chop and tea when you can." 

Mrs. Jinks disappeared ; the hum continued. Whether the 
two parsons, as Mrs. Jinks surmised, felt " in their glory," cannot 
be told : the ladies were certainly in theirs. These kettle-drums 
at Mr. Cattacomb's were charmingly attractive. 

When Mr. Strange did not return home for his chop at mid- 
day, he took it with his tea. His tray was still before him this 
evening when the kettle-drum trooped out to attend Vespers. 
At least, the company who had formed the drum. The two 
reverend gentlemen hastened on together a little in advance ; 
Miss Blake led the van behind ; and curious Foxwood ran to 
its windows to gaze. 

Mr. Strange, who had nothing particular on his hands or his 
mind that evening, looked after them. Example is infectious. 
He felt an inclination to follow in their wake — for it had not 
been his good fortune yet to make one of the congregation of 
St. Jerome's ; he had never indulged himself with as much as a 
peep inside the place. Accordingly, Mr. Strange started after 
a short delay, and gained the edifice. 

The first object his eyes rested on, struck him as being as 
ludicrous as an imp at the play. It was Tom Pepp in a conical 
hat tipped with red, and a red cross extending down his white 
garmented back. Tom Pepp stood near the bell, ready to 
tinkle it at different parts of the service. It may as well be 
stated — lest earnest disciples of new movements should feel or 
take offence — that the form and modelling of the services at St. 
Jerome's were entirely Mr. Cattacomb's own ; invented by 
himself exclusively, and not copied from any other standard, 
orthodox or unorthodox. The description given here is tak:en 
from facts. Mr. Strange, standing at the back near to Tom 
Pepp, enjoyed full view of all : the ladies prostrate on the floor, 
actually p7'0strate^ some of them, the Reverend Guy facing 
them with the whites of his eyes turned up ; Damon Puff on 
his knees, presenting his back to the room and giving every 
now and then a surreptitious stroke to his moustache. The 
detective had never seen so complete a farce in his life, in 
connection with religion. He thought the two reverend gentle- 
men might be shut up for a short term as mutinous lunatics, by 


Way of receiving a little wholesome correction. He knew that 
if he had a daughter, he would shut her up as one, rather than 
she should make a spectacle of herself as these girls were doing. 

The services over, Tom Pepp set on at the bell to ring them 
out with all his might — for that was their custom. Most of 
them filed out; as did Mr. Damon Puff; and they went on their 
way. A few remained, for confession to Mr. Cattacomb. 

It was growing dusk. A train was just in, and had deposited 
some passengers at the station. One of them came along, 
walking quickly, as if in haste to reach home. Happening to 
turn his head towards St. Jerome's entrance as he passed it, 
attracted by the bell, he saw there, rather to his surprise, Mr. 
Moore's strong-minded* sister. She peered at him in the 
twilight, for she was no longer so quick of sight as she had 
been ; and recognized Sir Karl Andinnian. 

" What, is it you. Miss Diana ! " he cried, holding out his 
hand. " Have you gone over to St. Jerome's ? " 

^' I would rather go over to Rome, Sir Karl,'^ was the candid 
answer. " I may lapse to St. Jerome's when I grow childish 
perhaps, if it lasts as long. There's no answering for any of us 
when the mind fails." 

Karl laughed slightly. He saw before him the receding 
crowd turning down towards Foxwood village, and knew that 
Vespers must be just over. Tom Pepp's bell would have 
told him that. It was clanging away just above Miss Diana's 

" You have been to Vespers, then," remarked Sir Karl again, 
almost at a loss what to say, and unable to get away until Miss 
Diana chose to release his hand. 

" Yes, I have been to what they call Vespers," she rejoined 
tartly. " More shame for a woman of my sober years to 
acknowledge it, as connected with this place. Look at them, 
trooping on there, that Puff in their midst, who is softer than 
the softest apple-puff ever made yet ! ^' continued Miss Diana, 
pointing in the direction of the vanishing congregation. '''They 
have left ; but five are remaining for confession. Hark ! Sir 
Karl ! the folly is going to begin." 

A sweet, silvery-toned bell rang gently within the room, and 
Mr. Tom Pepp stopped his own bell at the signal. The 

Within the Maze. 21 


Reverend Guy had entered the confessional box, and all other 
sounds must cease. 

" I should think they can hardly see to confess at this hour," 
said Sir Karl, jestingly. 

"They light a tallow candle, I believe, and put it in the 
vestry," said Miss Diana. " Five are staying to-night, as I told 
you : I always count them. They go in one at a time and the 
others wait their turn outside the vestry. Do you think I am 
going to allow my nieces to remain here alone to play at that 
tomfoolery. Sir Karl ? No : and so I drag myself here every 
confessional night. One of them, Jemima, is always staying for 
it. She is a little idiot." 

" It does not seem right," mused Sir Karl. 

'^ Right!" ejaculated Miss Diana angrily, as if she could 
have boxed his ears for the mildness of the term. " It is wrong, 
Sir Karl; wrong. I do not care to draw the curb-rein too 
tightly ; they are not my own children, and might rebel at it ; 
but as sure as they are living, if this folly of remaining to con- 
fession is to go on, I shall tell the doctor of it. I think. Sir 
Karl — and you must excuse me for saying so to your face — that 
you might have done something before now, to put down this 
pantomime of St. Jerome's." 

" Only this very morning I was with St. Henry, asking him 
what I could do," was the reply. " His opinion is, that it will 
cease of its own accord when the cold weather comes on." 

" Will it!" was the emphatic retort. "Not if Cattacomb 
and the girls can help it. Neither cold nor heat will stop 

"Well, I am not sure about the law, Miss Diana. I don't 
know that St. Henry is, either." 

" Listen, Sir Karl. If the law is not strong enough to put 
down these places, there is another remedy. Let all the clergy 
who officiate at them be elderly married men. It would soon 
be proved whether the girls go for the benefit of their souls." 

Sir Karl laughed. 

"It is these offshoots of so-called religious places, started 
here and there by vain men, some of whom, I venture to say, 
are not licensed clergymen, that bring shame and scandal 
upon the true church," concluded Miss Diana. " There : don't 


let us talk about it any further. Have you come from the 
station ? " 

**Yes. I had to run up to London for an hour or two 

" Then I dare say you are tired. Give my love to your 
wife," added Miss Diana, as she wished Sir Karl good evening, 
and turned into St. Jerome's again to watch over her niece 

Sir Karl strode onwards. He had just come home from his 
interview with Mr. Burtenshaw. Miss Diana Moore and her 
sentiments had served to divert his mind for a moment from 
his own troubles, but they were soon all too present again. The 
hum of voices and sound of footsteps came to him from the 
crowd, pursuing its busy way to the village : he was glad to 
keep on his own solitary course, and gradually lost its echoes. 

Some one else, who had come out of St. Jerome's, but could 
not properly be said to belong to the crowd, had also kept on 
the solitary road — and that was Mr. Strange. He knew the 
others would take the direct way to the village and Mrs. Jinks's, 
and perhaps that was his reason for not doing so. But there 
was no accounting for what Mr. Strange did : and one thing 
was certain — he had lately been in the habit of loitering in that 
solitary road a good deal after dusk had fallen, as he smoked 
his cigar. 

Karl went on. He had almost reached The Maze, though 
he was on the opposite side ; when, at a bend of the road, 
there suddenly turned upon him a man with a cigar in his 
mouth, the end of it glowing like an ember. The smoker 
would have turned his head, and passed on, but Sir Karl 
stopped. He had recognized him : and his mind had been 
made up on the way from London, to speak to this man. 

" I beg your pardon. Mr. Tatton, I think." 

Mr. Tatton might possibly have been slightly taken aback at 
hearing himself addressed by his own name : but there was no 
symptom of it in his voice or manner. 

" The same; sir," he readily answered, taking the cigar from 
his mouth. 

^^I wish to say a few words to you," pursued Sir Karl. "As 
well, perhaps, say them now as later." 


" Better, sir. No time like the present : it's ali we can makd 
Bure of." 

" Perhaps you know me, Mr. Tatton ? '* 

"Sir Karl Andinnian — unless I am mistaken," replied the 
detective^ throwing away the end of his cigar. 

Sir Karl nodded, but made no assent in words. He would 
have given a portion of his remaining life to discern whether 
this man, whom he so dreaded, knew, or suspected, that he had 
not a right to the title. 

** I have just come from London," pursued Sir Karl. " I 
saw Mr. Burtenshaw there to-day. Finding that you were 
down here, I wished to learn whether or not you had come 
here in search of one Philip Salter, and went up to ascertain. 
And I hear that it is so." 

The officer made no remark to this. It might be, that he 
was uncertain how far he might trust Sir Karl. The latter 
observed the reticence : guessed the doubt. 

*^ We may speak together in perfect confidence, Mr. Tatton. 
But for me, you would not have been sent here at all. It was 
in consequence of a communication I made myself, that 
suspicion as to Salter reached Scotland Yard." 

" I know all about that, Sir Karl," was the reply. " To tell 
you the truth, I should have made my presence here at Fox- 
wood known to you at once, and asked you to aid me in my 
search ; but I was warned at Scotland Yard that you might 
possibly be an obstruction to my work, instead of an aid, for 
you wished to screen Salter." 

" Scotland Yard warned you of that ! " exclaimed Sir Karl. 

^' Yes. They had it from Grimley." 

" The case is this," said Karl, wishing with his whole heart 
Tie could undo what he had done. " Some short time ago, I 
had a reason for making some inquiries respecting Philip 
Salter, and I went to my solicitors, Plunkett and Plunkett. 
They could not give me any information, and referred me to 
Mr. Burtenshaw. Burtenshaw introduced Grimley to me, and 
I saw them both twice. But I most certainly never intended 
to imply that Salter was in this neighbourhood, or to afford just 
grounds for instituting a search after him." 

" But I presume that you do know Salter is here, Sir Karl." 


" Indeed I do not." 

The officer was silent. He thought Sir Karl intended to 
deceive him. 

" I can tell you that he is here, Sir Karl — to the best of my 
belief. I could put out my hand at this moment and almost 
touch the dwelling that contains him." . 

They were almost opposite The Maze gate, close upon that 
of Clematis Cottage. Karl wondered, with an anxiety amount- 
ing to agony, which of the two dwellings was meant. It would 
be almost as bad for this man to take Salter as to take Adam 
Andinnian \ since the capture of the former might lead to that 
of the latter. 

" You say * to the best of your belief,' Mr. Tatton. You are 
not sure, then ? " 

" I am as sure as I can be, Sir Karl, short of actual proof." 

" Good night, Sir Karl.'' 

The interruption came from Mr. Smith, who was leaning 
over his gate, smoking a pipe. Karl returned the salutation 
and passed on. 

*^ He seems to have a jolly sort of easy life of it, that agent 
of yours, Sir Karl ? " remarked the officer. 

** Do you know him ? " questioned Karl. 

" Only by sight. I have seen Mr. Smith about on the land ; 
and I took the liberty this afternoon, meeting him by chance 
near the Brook Field, of asking him the time. The spring of 
my watch broke last night as I was winding it." 

Karl's heart was beating. Had he been mistaken in sup- 
posing Philip Smith to be Philip Salter ? Had he been nursing 
a foolish chimera ; and running his head — or, rather, his poor 
brother's head — into a noose for nothing? God help him, 

^* You seem to know my agent well by sight," he breathed, 
in low tones, lest its agitation should be heard. 

" Quite well," assented the officer. 

*^ Is he — does he bear any resemblance to Salter? " 

*' Not the slightest." 

Karl paused. " You are sure of that ? " 

Tatton looked at Sir Karl in the evening gloom, as if unable 
tQ understand hini, ^^He is ribout th^ same height as Salter, 


and in complexion is somewhat similar, if you can call that a 
resemblance," said he. ^' There is no other." 

Karl spoke not for a few moments ; the way before him was 
darkening. " You knew Salter's appearance well, I conclude ? " 
he said presently. 

" As well as I know my own brother's." 

Another pause; and then Karl laid his hand upon the 
officer's arm, bespeaking his best attention. 

" I am sorry for all this," he said. ^' I am vexed to have 
been the cause of so much trouble. Your mission here may 
terminate as soon as you like, Mr. Tatton, for it is Smith that 
I was suspecting of being Salter ! " 

" No ! " cried Tatton, in surprised doubt.' 

*'0n my solemn word of honour, I assert it. I suspected 
my agent, Smith, of being Salter." 

" Why, Sir Karl, I can hardly understand that. You surely 
could not suppose it to be within the bounds of probability 
that Philip Salter, the fugitive, would go about England in the 
light of day as your agent goes — no matter how secluded the 
spot might be ! And with five hundred pounds on his head ! " 

How a word of ridicule, of reason, even, will change our 
cherished opinions ! Stated as the cool and experienced 
police-officer now put it, Karl seemed to see how weak and 
foundationless his judgment had been. 

" The whole summary of the affair was this," he said, hoping 
by a candid explanation to disarm the suspicions he had 
raised. "A circumstance — I own it was but a slight one — 
caused me to think that Philip Smith, of whom I had known 
nothing until he came here a few months ago as my agent, 
might be the escaped prisoner, Philip Salter. The idea grew 
upon me, and I became anxious — naturally, you will say — to 
ascertain whether there were any real grounds for the suspicion. 
With this in view I went up to see if Plunketts' people could 
give me any information about Salter or describe his person ; 
and they referred me to Mr. Burtenshaw." 

"Well, sir?" interposed Tatton, who was listening atten- 

" I am bound to say that I obtained no corroboration of my 
suspicions, except in the point of resemblance," continued Sir 


Karl. " Burtenshaw did not know him ; but he summoned 
the man who had let him escape ; Grimley. As Grimley 
described Salter, it seemed to me that it was the exact descrip- 
tion of Smitho*' 

" There is a sort of general resemblance, I admit. Sir Karl, 
and the description of the one might perhaps sound like that 
of the other. But if you knew the two, you would see how 
unlike they are.'' 

'' Grimley's description seemed to me to be that of Smith," 
went on Karl. " I returned here, strengthened, but not fully 
confirmed, in my opinion. It was not a satisfactory state of 
things, and the matter continued to worry me. I longed to set 
it at rest, one way or the other ; and I went up again to town, 
and saw Grimley and Burtenshaw. When I returned once 
more, I felt almost as sure as a man can feel that Smith was 

" And yet you did not denounce him. Sir Karl. You would 
never have done it, I suppose ? " 

" I should not," admitted Karl. " My intention was to tax 
Smith with it privately, and — and send him about his business. 
Very wrong and illegal of me, no doubt : but I have suffered 
too severely in my own family by the criminal law of the land, 
to give up another man gratuitously to it.'' 

At this reference to Sir Adam Andinnian, Mr. Tatton re- 
mained silent from motives of delicacy. He could understand 
the objection; especially as coming from a refined, sensitive, 
and merciful man, as Sir Karl appeared to be. 

"Well, sir, I can only say for myself that I wish your agent 
had been Salter," he resumed : " my hands would have been 
down on him before to-night. But is it true that you have no 
other suspicion, Sir Karl ? '' 

'^ What suspicion ? " 

" That the real Salter is in hiding at Foxwood." 

Karl's heart beat a shade faster. ^^ So far from having any 
suspicion of that kind, I am perfectly certain, now, that you 
have proved to me Smith is not Salter, that he is not at Fox- 
wood. I know every soul in the place and around it." 

" Were you acquainted with the real Salter, Sir Karl ? " 

" No," 


*' You take no interest in him, I presume ? " 

" None whatever." 

During the conversation/they had been slowly pacing on- 
wards, had passed the Court gates, and were now fairly on the 
road to Foxwood. It seemed as if Sir Karl had a mind to 
escort Mr. Tatton home. 

*' By the way," he said, " why did you call yourself Strange 
down here ? " 

" I never did so," answered Tatton, laughing slightly. " The 
Widow Jinks gave me that name : I never gave it myself. 
I said I was a stranger, and she must have misunderstood 
me; for I found afterwards that she was calling me Mr. 
Strange. It was rather convenient than otherwise, and I did 
not correct it." 

Karl strolled on in silence, wondering how all this would 
end, and whether this dangerous man — dangerous to him and 
his interests — was satisfied, and would betake himself to town 
again. A question interrupted him. 

" Do you know much of a place here called The Maze, Sir 

*' The Maze is my property. Why ? " 

**Yes, I am aware of that. What I meant to ask was, 
whether you knew much of its inmates." 

'* It is let to a lady named Grey. Her husband is abroad." 

" That's what she tells you, is it ? Her husband is there, Sir 
Karl, if he be her husband. That is where we must look for 
Philip Salter." 

Something born of emotion, of sudden fear, seemed to flash 
into Karl's eyes and momentarily blind him. A wild prayer 
went up for guidance, for help to avert this evil. 

" Why do you say this ? " he asked, his voice controlled to a 
calm indifference. 

" I have information that some gentleman is living at The 
Maze in concealment, and I make no doubt it is Salter. The 
description of his person, so far as I have it, answers to him. 
Until to-night, Sir Karl, I have believed that it was to The 
Maze your own suspicions of Salter were directed." 

"Certainly not — on my word of honour as a gentleman," 
was the reply. *^I feel sure you are mistaken; I know you 


are. Mrs. Grey lives alone at The Maze, except for her servants : 
two old people, who are man and wife.'' 

" I am aware the general belief is that she lives alone. It's 
not true, though, for all that. Sir Karl." 

" Indeed it is true," returned Karl, calmly as before, for he 
did not dare show too much zeal in Mrs. Grey's cause. " I 
have been over there pretty often on one matter or another — 
the house is an old one, and no end of repairs seem to be 
wanted to it^ — and I am absolutely certain that no inmate what- 
ever is there, beyond the three I have mentioned : the lady, 
and the man and woman. I do not include the infant." 

*^ Ay ; the infant. What does that prove ? " 

" Nothing as to your argument. Mrs. Grey only came to 
the place some five or six months ago. Not yet six, I think." 

''Rely upon it, Sir Karl, the lady has contrived to blind 
you, in spite of your visits, just as she has blinded the outside 
world. Some one is there, concealed ; and I shall be very 
much surprised if it does not turn out to be Salter. As to the 
two old servants, they are bound to her interests; are of 
course as much in the plot as she is." 

" I know you are mistaken. I could stake my life that no 
one else is there. Surely you are not going to act in any way 
on this idea ! " 

"I don't know," replied Mr. Tatton, craftily. ''Time 
enough. Perhaps I may obtain some other information before 
long. Should I require a warrant to search the house, I shall 
apply to you, Sir Karl. You are in the commission of peace, 
I believe." 

Sir Karl nodded. " If you must have one, I shall be happy 
to afford it," he said, remembering that if it came to this, his 
being able to apprize The Maze beforehand would be very 
essential. And, with that, they separated : the detective con- 
tinuing to pace onwards towards Paradise Row, Sir Karl turning 
back to his own house. 

Eut the events of the evening, as concerning The Maze 
interests, were not altogether at an end. Miss Blake was the 
last to come out of the confessional, for the rest had taken 
their turn before her. It was tolerably late then ; quite dark ; 
^nd both Aunt Diana and Tom Pepp were rampant at being 


kept so long. They all turned out of St. Jerome's together, 
including Mr. Cattacomb ; and all, except Miss Blake and the 
boy, went in the direction of the village. Tom Pepp, having 
doffed his bell-ringing garments and locked up, proceeded the 
other way, accompanied by Miss Blake. 

She was going to visit a sick woman who lived next door to 
Tom's mother. Miss Blake had her good points, though she 
was harsh in judgment. This poor woman. Dame Bell, was 
dying of consumption; the end was drawing near, and Miss 
Blake often went to sit with and read to her. The boy had 
told her at Vespers that night that it was thought she could 
hardly live till morning : hence the late visit. She found the 
woman very ill, and stayed to do what she could. 

It was striking ten when Miss Blake quitted the cottage : she 
heard the quarters and the hour chimed out from the distant 
church at Foxwood. The night was a still one. Tom Pepp, 
waiting outside, gallantly offered to attend her home. She 
accepted the escort readily, not caring to go alone, as it was 
so lata 

" But I fear it will be keeping your mother up, Tom," she 
said, in hesitation. •' I know you go to bed early." 

" That's nothing, 'um," said Tom. " Mother have got her 
clothes from the wash to fold to-night. She telled me I was 
not to let you go back alone. It have been a rare good day 
for drying." 

So they set off together, talking all the way ; for Tom was 
an intelligent companion, and often had items of news to regale 
the public with. When they came within view of The Maze 
gates and Clematis Cottage, the loneliness of the road was 
over, and Miss Blake sent the lad back again, giving him a 
threepenny-bit in return for his escort. 

She was on he Maze side of the way, not having crossed 
since leaving Mrs. Bell's cottage. And she had all but reached 
the gates, when the sound of advancing footsteps met her ear. 
Drawing back amidst the trees — not to watch for Sir Karl 
Andinnian as she had watched at other times, for she believed 
him to be in London, but simply to shield herself from 
observation, as the hour was so late — Miss Blake waited until 
the footsteps should have passed. 


The footsteps did not pass. They halted at the gate : and 
she, peeping between the leaves, saw it was Sir Karl. He 
took the key from his pocket as usual, opened the gate, locked it 
after him, and plunged into the maze. Miss Blake heaved a sigh 
at man^s inventions, and kept still until there was no fear that her 
rustling in moving away would be heard. Then she moved. 

She had never been in all her life so nearly screaming. 
Taking a step forward to depart, she found herself right in the 
arms of some one who had coat-sleeves on ; another watcher 
like herself." 

" I beg your pardon, ma'am.'' 

*^ Good gracious, Mr. Strange, how you frightened me ! " she 
whispered. '' Whatever are you doing here ? " 

" Nay, I may ask what you were doing here," was the smiling 
retort. " On your way home, I take it. As for me, I was 
smoking my cigar, and it has gone out. That was our friend, 
Sir Karl Andinnian, I fancy, who let himself in there." 

*^0h yes, it was Sir Karl," was the contemptuous answer, 
given as they walked on together. " It is not the first night by 
a good many he has been seen stealing in at those gates." 

*^ Paying his court to Mrs. Grey ! " returned Mr. Strange, 
really not speaking with any sinister motive, and his mind full 
of Salter. 

Miss Blake, in the honest indignation of her heart, and lately 
come from the upright exhortations of the Reverend Guy, 
allowed her sentiments their full play. Mr. Strange's remark, 
made in all innocence, had seemed to show her that he too 
knew of the scandal. 

" It is shameful ! " she said. " Doubly shameful in Sir Karl, 
a married man." 

Mr. Strange pricked up his ears. He caught her meaning 

''Nonsense ! " he said. 

^'I wish it was nonsense,'^ said Miss Blake. ^'When the 
woman, Betsy Chaffen, was telling the tale in your rooms that 
day, of the gentleman she saw, and whom she could never see 
afterwards, I could hardly contain myself, dear sir, knowing it 
was Sir Karl.'' 

^'And — and — do you mean — do you think that there's no 


Mr. Grey there — no gentleman inmate, I would say ? " cried the 
detective, surprised for once in his Hfe. 

" Mr. Grey ! " she repeated scoffingly. " The only ' Mr. 
Grey ' that exists is Sir Karl Andinnian ; I have known it a long 
while. One or two others here know it also. It is a scandal." 

She wished him good night with the last words, crossed the 
road, and passed into the grounds of the Court through one of 
the small gates. Leaving Mr. Strange looking after her like a 
man in a dream, as he tried to solve the problems set working 
in his brain. 



The wide window of the upper sitting-room at The Maze v^as 
thrown open to the night-air. Gazing forth from it, stood Sir 
Adam Andinnian and his wife. He was in his usual evening 
dress, that he so obstinately continued to assume in spite of 
remonstrance : she wore a loose white robe, with a blue 
cashmere shawl over it. She looked very fragile, very weak 
and ill still ; and this was the first day that she had left her 
chamber for any length of time. There was no light in the 
sombre room : before light was allowed to enter, the window 
and the shutters would be closed for the night. 

Not a word was being spoken between them. She had not 
long come into the room. A great terror lay on both their 
hearts. At least, it did on hers : and Sir Adam had grown to 
feel anything but easy. The suspicions, that appeared to be 
attaching themselves to The Maze without the walls, were 
producing their effects on the comfort of the inmates within : 
and perhaps these suspicions were feared all the more because 
they did not as yet take any tangible or distinct form. That a 
detective officer was in the neighbourhood looking about, 
Adam had heard from his brother ; and that it was the same 
man who had been seen by Ann Hopley watching the house in 
the moonlight and who had boldly presented himself at the 
gate the next day demanding permission to enter. Sir Adam 


had no doubt about whatever Karl, too^ was taking to write 
him notes of caution. 

Brave though he was, he could not feel safe. Not a moment 
of the day or night but he might see the officers of justice 
coming in to search for him. His own opinion was, that he 
should be able to evade them if they did come ; to baffle their 
vigilance; but he could not feel quite as easy as though he 
were on a bed of rose-leaves. In consequence of this appre- 
hension, the ears of himself and his wife were ever on the alert : 
their conscious hearts seldom lost the quick beat of fear. It 
was enough to wear them both out. 

Can the reader fully reahze the situation ? Can he imagine 
one single hour of its terrors, or picture its never-ceasing doubt 
and agony ? I think not. It cannot be adequately described. 
Behind and before them was the awful prospect of that dreaded 
Portland Island : look which way they would^ nothing else 
presented itself to their view. -. 

A gentle breeze suddenly arose, stirring the trees. Never 
an unexpected sound occurred, however faint, but it stirred 
their beating hearts. It was only the wind ; they knew it was only 
that : and yet the emotion did not quickly subside. Rose had 
another great anxiety. Perhaps he had it also in a degree, but 
he did not admit it. It was on the score of her husband's 
health. There could be no doubt that something or other was 
wrong, for he had occasional attacks of pain that seemed to 
arise without any apparent cause. Ann Hopley, who con- 
sidered herself wise in ailments, declared that he ought to see a 
doctor. She had said it to her master ineffectually ; she now 
began to say it to her mistress. Sir Adam laughed at her when 
his wife was present, and ridiculed her advice with words of 
pleasantry ; but Ann Hopley gave nothing but grave looks in 

The fact was, she knew more than Rose did : more than Sir 
Adam intended or would allow his wife to know. One day, 
going to a part of the grounds where she knew she should find 
her master, she discovered him on the grass amongst the trees 
m a fainting-fit, his face of a bluish-white. Some pain, or 
spasm, sharper than he had ever felt before, had caused him 
to lose consciousness, he said when he recovered; and he 


threatened the woman with unheard-of penalties if she breathed 
a word to her mistress. Ann Hopley held her tongue accord- 
ingly: but when Rose was about again she could see that 
Adam was not well. And the very impossibility of calling in a 
medical man, without arousing curiosity and comments that 
might lead to danger, was tormenting her with its own anxiety. 

*'The baby sleeps well to-night, Rose.'' 

^* He has slept better and has been altogether easier since he 
was baptized," was her answer. "It is just as though he knew 
he had been made a little Christian, and so feels at rest." 

" Goose ! '' smiled Sir Adam. " Don't you think you are 
sitting up too late, you young mamma ? " 

^'I am not tired, Adam. I slept well this afternoon." 

" It is later than perhaps you are aware of, Rose. Hard 
upon ten." 

" Would you like to have lights ? " she asked. 

" No. I would rather be without them." 

She also would rather be without them. In this new cause 
for fear that was growing up, it seemed safer to be at the open 
window looking out, than to be shut up in the closed room 
where the approaches of danger could neither be seen nor 
heard. Perhaps the same feeling was swaying Sir Adam. 

" You are sure you are well wrapped up, Rose ? " 

" Certain. And I could not take cold in this weather. It is 
like summer still." 

All around was silent as death. The stars shone in the sky : 
the gentle breeze, that had lately ruffled the trees, seemed to 
have died away. Breaking just then upon the stillness, came 
the sound of the church clock at Foxwood, chiming its four 
quarters and the hour after it. The same quarters, the same 
strokes that Miss Blake also heard, emerging from Dame Bell's 
cottage. Husband and wife, poor exiled people, stood on again 
side by side, they hardly knew how long, hushing the trouble that 
was making havoc of their lives, and from which they knew 
there could be no certain or complete escape so long as time 
for him should last. Presently he spoke again. 

"Rose, if you stay here longer I shall close the window. 
This night-air, calm and warm though it is, cannot be good for 
you " 


She hid her warning hand upon his arm. Their ears were 
quick, but he was speaking at the moment, and so she first 
caught the sound. A pause of intense silence, their hearts 
beating almost to be heard ; and then the advance of footsteps 
might be distinctly traced, coming through the maze. 

*'Go, Adam," she whispered. 

But, before Sir Adam could leave the room, the whistle of a 
popular melody broke upon the air, and they knew the intruder 
was Karl. It was his usual signal. Ann Hopley heard it 
below and opened the heavily barred door. 

" You are late to-night, sir." 

" True. I could not come earlier, Ann : it was not safe." 

Poor Karl Andinnian ! Had he known that it was not safe 
that night, later as well as earlier ! That is, that he had not 
come in unwatched. For, you have understood that it was the 
night mentioned at the close of the last chapter, when his 
interview with Mr. Strange had taken place on his return from 
London, and the detective and Miss Blake had subsequently 
watched him go in. 

^^ Now then, Karl," began Sir Adam, when the room was at 
length closed and lighted, and Ann Hopley had gone down 
again : " what was the precise meaning of the note you sent me 

"The meaning was to enjoin extra caution upon you," 
replied Karl, after a moment's hesitation, and an involuntary 
glance at Rose. 

" If you have anything to say and are hesitating because my 
wife is present, you may speak out freely," cried the very un- 
reticent Sir Adam. Rose seconded the words. 

" Speak, Karl, speak," she said, leaning towards him, a 
painful anxiety in her tones. *' It will be a relief to me. 
Nothing that you or any one else can say can be as bad as my 
own fears." 

" Well, I have found out that that man is a London detec- 
tive," said Karl, deeming it best to tell the whole truth. *^He is 
down here looking after a fugitive. Not j^^^^, Adam : one Salter." 
" One Salter? " echoed Sir Adam, testily, whilst Rose started 
slightly. *^ Who's he? What Salter? Is there any Salter at 
Foxwood ? " 


' " It seems that the police in London have been suspecting 
that he was here, and they sent this detective, who calls him- 
self Strange, to look after him. Salter, however, cannot be 
found ; no doubt the suspicion was altogether a mistake ; but, 
unfortunately. Strange has had his thoughts directed to The 
Maze, and is looking after it." 

** After me ? " cried Adam. 

" No. I do not believe there exists the smallest suspicion 
that you are not in the family vault in Foxwood churchyard. 
He fancies some one is concealed here, and thinks it must be 

" But why on earth should his suspicions be directed to The 
Maze at all ? " demanded Sir Adam, with a touch of his old 

^*Ah, why! We have to thank Moore for that, and your 
own incaution, Adam, when you allowed yourself to be seen 
the night he brought Nurse Chaffen in. It seems the woman 
has talked of it outside ; telling people, and Strange amongst 
the rest, that it was either a real gentleman in dinner attire, or 
a ghost in the semblance of one. Some have taken unhesita- 
tingly to the ghost theory, believing it to be a remanet of the 
Throcton times ; but detectives are wiser men." 

'^ And so this man is looking after The Maze !" 

" Just so. He is after Salter, not after you." 

Sir Adam made no immediate observation. Rose, listening 
eagerly, was gazing at Karl, 

'• Is it sure that Salter is not in the place?" she asked in low 
tones. ** That he has not been here ? " 

" Quite sure, Rose. The idea was entirely a misapprehen- 
sion," replied Karl, returning her glance. ''Therefore, you 
see," he added, by way of giving what reassurance he could, 
'' the man you have so dreaded is not on the track of Adam at 
all; but in the imaginary pursuit of Salter." 

'' One scent leads to another," broke forth Sir Adam. 
" Whilst the fellow is tracking out Salter he may track out me. 
Who's to know that he has not a photograph of Adam Andin- 
nian in his pocket, or my face in his memory ? " 

" I should like to ask him the question, whether he knew Sir 
Adam Andinnian personally ; but I fear I dare not," remarked 


KarL '*A suspicion once awakened would never be laid to 
rest. Your greatest security lies in their not knowing you are 

" My only security," corrected Sir Adam. '^ Well, Karl, if 
that man has his eyes directed to The Maze, it puts an end to 
all hope of my trying to get away from it. Little doubt, I 
suppose, but he is watching the outer walls night and day; 
perhaps with a dozen comrades to help him." 

" For the present, you can only stay where you are," 
acknowledged Karl. *^I have told you all this, Adam, to 
make you doubly careful. But for your reckless want of 
caution I would have spared you the additional uneasiness it 
must bring you." 

" Even though the man does know me, the chances are that 
he would not find me if he entered," mused Sir Adam, aloud. 
*^ With my precautions, the task would be somewhat difficult. 
Yoii know it, Karl." 

" Yes, but you are not always using your precautions," 
returned Karl. '^Witness you here, sitting amidst us openly 
this evening in full dress ! Don't do it in future, Adam; conceal 
yourself as you best can — I beseech it of you for the love of 
Heaven. When this present trouble shall have subsided — if in 
God's mercy it does subside — why then you may resume old 
habits again. At least, there will not be so much risk : but I 
have always considered them hazardous." 

" ril see," assented Sir Adam. Which was a concession 
from hi7n, 

" Be on your guard day and night. Let not one moment of 
either season find you off it, or not ready for any surprise or 
emergency. Strange talked about applying for a warrant to 
search the house. Should he do so, I will warn you of it, if 
possible. But your safer course is to be looking for the enemy 
with every ring of the bell, every breath that stirs the trees in 
the labyrinth, every sound that vibrates on the air." 

"A pretty state of things!" growled Adam. ^'I'm sure I 
wish I never had come here ! " 

" Oh, that you had not ! " returned Karl. 

" It's my proper place, though. Yes, it is. My dear little 
son, heir to all, ought to be brought up on his own property. 

Within the Maze. 22 


Karlo, old fellow, that remark must have a cruel ring on your 
ear : but I cannot deprive the child of his birthright." 

" I should never wish you to do it, Adam." 

" Some arrangement shall be made for the far-off future ; rest 
assured of that, and tell your wife so. In any case, I'oxwood 
will be yours for one-and-twenty years to come, and the income 
you now enjoy to keep it up with. After the boy shall be of 
age " 

" Let us leave these considerations for the present," inter- 
rupted Karl. " We may all be dead and buried before then. 
As for me, I seem not to see a single step before me, let alone 
a series of years." 

" Right, Karl. These dreams lay hold of me sometimes, but 
it is worse than folly to speak of them. Are you going ? " 

" Yes. It is late. I should not have come in to-night, but 
for wishing to warn you. You will try and take care of yourself, 
Adam ? " he affectionately added, holding out his hand. 

'^ I'll take care of myself; never fear," was Sir Adam's lightly 
given answer, as he grasped it. " Look here, brother mine," he 
resumed, after a slight pause, and his voice took a deeper tone, 
" God knows that I have suffered too heavily for what I did j 
He knows that my whole life, from the rising up of the sun to 
its going down, from the falling of night's dark curtain to its 
lifting, is one long, unbroken penance : and I believe in my 
heart that He will in His compassion shield me from further 
danger. There 1 take that to comfort you, and go in peace. 
In your care for me, you have needed comfort throughout more 
than I, Karl." 

Retaining his brother's hand in his, whilst Karl said good night 
to Rose, Adam went downstairs with him, and beyond the door, 
after Ann Hopley had unbarred it. It was only since the 
advent of the new fears that these additional precautions, such 
as barring up at sunset, had been taken. 

" Don't come out," urged Karl. 

'^ Just a step or two." 

Karl submitted : he felt secure enough from active danger 
to-night. But it was in these trifles that Adam's natural in- 
caution betrayed itself 

*' Karl, did you tell all you knew ? " he began, as they plunged 


into the maze. " Was there more behind that you would not 
speak out before the wife ? " 

" I told you all, Adam. It is bad enough." 

**It might be worse. Suppose they were looking after me, 
for instance, instead of this fellow, Salter ! I shall escape them ; 
I don't fear." 

'^ Adam, you shall not come farther. If the man got in one 
night, he may get in another. Good-bye." 

'^ Good-bye, dear old anxious fellow ! " 

^^ Go in, and get the door barred." 

" All right. A last good night to you ! " 

Karl walked on, through the intricacies of the maze. Adam 
stood listening for a moment, and then turned to retrace his 
steps. As he did so, the sharp dart of pain he was growing 
accustomed to went through him, turning him sick and faint. 
He seized hold of a tree for support, and leaned against it. 

^' What is it that can be the matter with me ? " ran his 
thoughts after it had subsided, and he was getting out his hand- 
kerchief to wipe from his brow the cold drops of agony that had 
gathered there. ^^ As Ann Hopley says, I ought to see a doctor : 
but it is not to be thought of; and less than ever now, with this 
new bother hanging over the house. Hark ! Oh it's only the 
wind rusthng the leaves again." 

He stayed listening to it. Listening in a dreamy sort of way, 
his thoughts still on his malady. 

'* I wonder what it is ? If the pain were in a different direc- 
tion, I might think it was the heart. But it is not that. When 
my father was first taken ill of his fatal illness, he spoke of some 
such queer attacks of agony. I am young for his complaint 
though. Does disease ever grow out of anxiety, I wonder? 
If so " 

A whirl and a rustle just over his head, and Sir Adam started 
as though he had been struck by a blow. It was only a night 
owl, flying from the tree above, with her dreary note, and beat- 
ing the air with her wings ; but it had startled him, and he felt 
as sick and faint again from terror as he had done just before 
from pain. What nerves he possessed were on the extreme of 
tension to-night. That Adam Andinnian, the cool, equable 
man, who was the very opposite of his sensitive brother Karl, 


and who had been unable to understand what nerves were, and 
to laugh at those who had them — that he could be thus shaken 
by the mere sound of a night bird will serve to show the reader 
what his later Hfe had been, and how it had told upon him. 
He did not allow this to appear, even to those about him. He 
kept up his old role of carelessness — and in a degree he was 
careless still, and in ordinary moments most incautious from 
sheer want of thought : but there could be no doubt that he 
was experiencing to the full all the bitter mockery, the never- 
ceasing hazard of his position. 

In the early days, when the attempted escape from Portland 
Island was only in contemplation, Karl had foreseen what life 
must be if he did escape. An existence of miserable conceal- 
ment ; of playing at hide-and-seek with the law ; a world-wide 
apprehension for ever lying on him of being retaken. In 
short, a hunted man who must not dare to approach the haunts 
of his fellow-men, and of whom every other man must neces- 
sarily be the enemy. Even so had it turned out : Adam 
Andinnian was realizing it to the full. A great horror lay upon 
him of being recaptured : but it may be questioned whether, 
had the choice been given him, he would not rather have 
remained a prisoner than have escaped to this. Even as he 
stood now, in the still night, with all the weird surroundings of 
fancy that night sometimes brings when the spirit is in tune for 
it, he was realizing it unto his soul. 

The stars in their dusky canopy shone down upon him 
tlirough the interstices of the trees, already somewhat thinning 
their leaves with the approach of autumn ; and he remained 
on, amidst the gloom, lost in reflection. 

*' I should be better off there,'^ he murmured, gazing upwards 
in thought at the heaven that was beyond ; " and it may be 
that Thou, O my God, knowest that, in Thy pitiful mercy. As 
Thou wilt. Life has become but a weary one here, - full of 
pains and penalties." 

'•' Sir ! " came to him in hushed, doubtful tones at this juncture. 
^^Sir, are you within hearing? My mistress is feeling anxious, 
and wishes the door bolted." 

^^Ay, bolt and bar it well, Ann," he said, going forwards 
" But barred doors will not keep out all the foes of man." 

oMly a night OWL. 341 

Meanwhile Karl had got through the maze ; and cautiously, 
after listening, let himself out at the gate. No human being, 
that he could discern, was within sight or hearing ; and he 
crossed the road at once. Then, but not before, he became 
aware that his agent, Mr. Smith, was in that favourite spot and 
attitude of his, leaning his arms on the little garden-gate, his 
green glasses discarded — as they generally were after sunset. 

** Good night," said Karl, in passing. But some words of the 
agent's arrested his progress. 

*' Would you mind stepping in for one moment. Sir Karl? 
I wanted to say a word to you, and have been watching for you 
to come out." 

" Is it anything particular ? '' asked Karl, turning in at the 
gate at once, which Mr. Smith held open. 

" ni get a light, sir, if you will wait an instant." 

Karl heard a match struck indoors, and Mr. Smith re* 
appeared in the passage with a candle. He ushered Karl into 
the room on the left-hand ; the best room, that was rarely used. 

*^ This one has its shutters closed," was the explanatory 
remark. '^I generally keep the others open until I go to bed." 

" Tell me at once what you want," said Karl. " It is late, 
and I shall have my household wondering where I am." 

" Well, Sir Karl, first of all, I wish to ask if you are aware 
that you were watched into The Maze to-night ? " began Smith. 
He spoke in the lowest whisper; scarcely above his breath. 
The agent's one servant had been in bed at the top of the house 
long before this : but he was a cautious man. 

" No. Who watched me ? " 

"Two people, sir. One was Miss Blake, the lady staying 
with you at the Court ; the other was a confounded fellow who 
is at Foxwood for no good, I guess, and is pushing his prying 
nose on the sly into everything.'' 

*' Do you mean Mr. Strange ? " * 

*' That's the name : a lodger at Mother Jinks's. He and 
the lady watched you in, Sir Karl ; they stood close by the gate 
amongst the trees, and then walked off down the road together." 

Karl's pulses beat a shade more quickly. *' Why should they 
have been watching me? What could be their motive for 
doing so ? " 


'' Miss Blake did not intend to watch you — as I take it. I 
saw her coming along with a sharpish step from the direction 
of that blessed St. Jerome's, late as it was — Cattacomb may 
have been treating his flock to a nocturnal service. When she 
was close to The Maze, she must have heard your footsteps^ for 
she drew suddenly within the trees to hide herself After you 
had passed in, she came out of her shelter, and another with 
her — the man Strange. So he must already have been hidden 
there, Sir Karl : and, I should say, for the purpose of watching." 

Karl was silent. He did not like to hear this. It seemed 
to menace further danger. 

" I went in to warn Sir Adam against this man," he observed ; 
" to tell him never to be off his guard, day or night. He is 
a London detective ! " 

" What — Strange is ? " exclaimed the agent, with as much 
astonishment as his low tones permitted hmi to express. "A 
London detective, Sir Karl ? " 

*' Yes, he is." 

Mr. Smith's face fell considerably. '^ But— w^hat is he doing 
down here ?" he inquired. " Who's he after? Surely not Sir 
Adam ? " 

" No, not Sir Adam. He is after some criminal who — who 
does not exist in the place at all," added Karl, not choosing to 
be more explicit, considering that it w^as the man before him 
whom he had suspected of being the said criminal, and feeling 
ashamed of his suspicions now that they were dispelled, and he 
had to speak of them with him face to face. *^ The danger is, 
that in looking after one man the police may come upon the 
track of another." 

The agent nodded his head. ^' But surely they do not suspect 
The Maze ? " 

'' They do suspect The Maze," replied Karl. " Owing to the 
tattling of the woman Mr. Moore took there — Nurse Chaffen— 
they suspect it." 

Mr. Smith allowed a very unorthodox word to issue through 
his closed teeth, applied not only to the lady in question, but 
to ladies in general. 

" The man Strange has been down here looking after some 
one whom he can't find ; who no doubt is not in the neighbour- 


hood at all, and never has been," resumed Karl. ^' Strange's 
opinion, however, was — and is — that the man is here, concealed. 
When he heard Chaffen's tale of the gentleman she saw in 
evening dress at The Maze, but whom she never saw again and 
therefore concluded he was hidden somewhere about the house 
to keep out of her way, he caught up the idea that it was the 
man he was after. Hence his suspicions of The Maze, and his 

** It's a very unfortunate thing ! " breathed the agent. 

'' You see, now, Mr. Smith, how much better it would have 
been if Sir Adam had never come here. Or, being here, if he 
had been allov/ed to go away again." 

" He can't attempt it now," was the quiet retort of the agent. 
" With a detective's eyes about, it would be only to walk straight 
into the hon's mouth." 

" Just so. We all know that." 

^' I wish to Heaven I could get him away ! ^ spoke the agent, 
impulsively, and it was evident that his heart was in his words. 
" Until now I believed he was as safe here as he could be else- 
where — or safer. What the devil brings a confounded detective 
in this quiet place ? The malignant fiend, or some implacable 
fate must have sent him. Sir Karl, the danger is great. We 
must not close our eyes to it." 

Alas, Karl Andinnian felt that, and in a more cruel degree 
than the agent could do so. It was Ms work ; it was he who 
had brought this hornets^ nest about his unfortunate brother's 
head. The consciousness lay heavily upon him in that moment. 

'' May I ask you for a glass of water, Mr. Smith ? " broke 
next from his dry and fevered lips. 

'' I will get it for you in a moment, sir," said the agent, rising 
with alacrity. 

Karl heard another match struck outside, and then the steps 
of the agent retreating in the direction of the pump. In his 
restlessness of mind, he could not sit still, but rose to pace the 
room. A small set of book-shelves, hanging against the wall, 
caught his attention : he halted before it and took down a 
volume ; mechanically, rather than with any motive. 

*'Phihp Salter. From his loving mother." 

The words met Karl's eyes as he opened the book. Just for 


a moment he questioned whether his sight was deceiving hinl. 
But no. There they were, in a lady's hand, the ink dry and 
faded with time. It was Bunyan's " Pilgrim's Progress." 

" Is he Salter, after all ? " mentally breathed Karl. 

Mr. Smith came in again with a glass of water as the doubt 
was running through Karl's mind. Thanking his agent for the 
water, he drank it, and sat dow^n with the book in his hand. 

" I have been amongst your books, you see, Mr. Smith. A 
sound old volume, this." 

*^ It is, Sir Karl. I dip into it myself now and then." 

'' Did you know this— this Mr. Philip Salter ? "—holding the 
book open at the words. 

For answer, the agent threw his eyes straight into Karl's 
face, and paused. '* Did you know him, Sir Karl? " 

" I never knew him. I have heard somewhat about him." 

*^ Ay, few persons but have, I expect," returned the agent, 
with a groan. "He was my cousin, sir." 

" Your cousin ! " echoed Karl. 

" My own cousin : we were sisters' sons. He was Philip 
Salter ; I am Philip Smith." 

Karl's eyes were opened. In more senses than one. 

"The fool that Philip Salter showed himself!" ejaculated 
PhiUp Smith — and it was evident by the bitter tone that the 
subject was a sore one. " I was in his office. Sir Karl ; a clerk 
under, him; but he was some years younger than I. He 
might have done so well : none of us had the smallest idea 
that he was not doing well. The fall was all through private 
and illegitimate speculation. He fell into a hole where the 
mire was deep, and used dangerous means when at his wits' 
end to get out of it. It did for him what you know, and it 
ruined me ; for, being his cousin, men thought I must have 
been aware of it, and my place was taken from me." 

" Where is he now ? " asked Karl. 

" I don't knowc Sometimes we think he is dead. After the 
escape, we had reason to believe that he got off to Canada, 
but we were never made certain of it, and have never heard 
from him in any way. He may be in some of the backwoods 
there, afraid to write to us." 

" And this was his book ? " 


'^ Yes. Most of his small belongings came into my hands. 
The affair killed his mother : broke her heart. He was all she 
had, except one daughter. Sir Karl, do you know what I 
would do if I had the power ? " fiercely continued Smith. ^* I 
would put down by penal laws all these cursed .speculators 
who, men of straw themselves, issue their plausible schemes 
only to deceive and defraud a confiding, credulous public; all 
these betting and gambling rogues who lay hold of honest 
natures to lure them to their destruction. But for these, Philip 
Salter had been holding up his head untarnished yet." 

'^Ay," assented Karl. *^But that will never be, so long as 
the greed of gold shall last. It is a state of affairs that can 
belong only to a Utopian world ; not to this one." 

He put out his hand to PhiHp Smith when he left— a thing 
he had never voluntarily before done — in his sensitive regret 
for having wronged the man in his heart : and went home with 
his burden of perplexity and pain. 



Life was to the last degree dreary for Lucy Andinnian. But 
for the excitement to her mind, imparted by that mysterious 
building. The Maze, and the trouble connected with it, she 
could scarcely have continued to go on, and bear it. It was 
not a healthy excitement : no emotion can be that, which has 
either jealousy or anger for its origin. Let us take one day in 
her existence, and see what it was like : the day following the 
one last spoken of. 

A bright morning. The sun, so prolific of his bounties that 
year, was making the earth glad with renewed light, and many 
a heart with it. Not so Lucy's. It seemed to her that never 
a gleam of gladness could illumine hers again. She sat in her 
room, partly dressed, after a night of much sleeplessness. 
What sleep she had was disturbed, as usual, by dreams tinged 
with the unpleasantness of her waking thoughts. A white 
wrapper enfolded her, and Aglae was doing her hair. The 


woman saw how weary and spiritless her mistress was becoming ; 
but not a suspicion of the true cause suggested itself to her, for 
Lucy and her husband took care to keep up appearances, and 
guarded their secret well. Aglae attempted to say a word of 
gossip now and again, but received no encouragement : Lucy 
was buried in a reverie. 

^'AVe are growing more estranged day by day," ran her 
thoughts. *^ He w^ent to London yesterday, and never said 
why; never gave me the least explanation. After he came 
home at night, and had dined, he went out again. To The 
Maze, of course.'^ 

^' Will my lady please to have her hair in rolls or in plaits 
this morning ? " 

'^ As you please, Aglae." And, the weary answer given, her 
thoughts ran on again. 

" I fancy Theresa saw him go there. I can't help fancying 
it. She had all her severe manner on when she came in last 
night, but was so pityingly kind to me. And I could bear all 
so much better if she would not be pitiful. It was past ten. 
That poor Mrs. Bell is likely to die, and Theresa had been 
reading to her. I kept hoping she would go to bed, and she 
did not go. Is it wrong of me to sit up, I wonder, to see what 
time he comes in? — would Margaret say it was wrong? 
Theresa got her silks and her work about, and I had mine. 
He has hardly ever been so late as last night. It was half-past 
eleven. What right has she to keep him, or he to stay ? He 
said, in a light, indifferent tone, by way of excuse, that he had 
been talking with Smith, and the time slipped by unheeded. 
Theresa drew in her lips, and gave him a scornful glance. 
Yes : she had certainly seen him go in elsewhere, and she 
knew that the excuse was not a true one. I took my candle, 
and came up here — and have had one of my most wretched 
nights again — and neither I nor Aglae could find that book 
that comforts me. It was very cruel of Karl to marry me : 
and yet — and yet — would I be unmarried again if I could ? 
Would I break even from this distressing life, if it involved a 
separation for ever? I fear not. Not to see him day by day 
would be a worse fate even than this." 

" Did my lady think to ask Sir Karl whether he had put 


away that book that is missing from the room ? " interposed 
Aglae, quite unconscious that her lady had not seen Sir Karl 
since the book was missed, any more than she herself had : 
and moreover that he was not likely to see it. 

" I have not asked him yet. Perhaps I took it downstairs 

*^ Which robe, my lady ? " 

^^The Swiss muslin." 

Aglae left her when she was ready, and Lucy took her Bible 
for a few minutes, and said her prayers. Never did prayers 
ascend from a more troubled heart. The book she had mis- 
laid was one of those little gems of consolation that can only 
be estimated in times of need. It had been given to Lucy by 
Miss Sumnor. 

She stood a few minutes at the open window, gazing out on 
the sunny morning scene. The leaves of the changing trees 
— getting, alas ! bare as Lucy's heart felt — the lawn, which 
Maclean was rolling, the bright flowers, the sunlight falling 
on the lodge ! All these fair things were hers ; and yet, she 
could enjoy them not. 

She went down : putting away from her face all sadness that 
she could, and looking in her pretty dress as fair as the 
sunshine itself. Hewitt came in with the coffee, and Lucy 
took her place at table. They never w^aited for Miss Blake. 
St. Jerome's was exacting, and Mr. Cattacomb somewhat 
uncertain as to the precise time at which he released his flock. 
Hewitt went across the lawn to tell his master, who was talking 
to Maclean, that the breakfast was ready. 

Karl came in through the open window. She glanced up 
and dropped her eyes again. The more attractive he looked — 
and he always looked attractive — the greater her sense of pain. 
The fresh air was sweet and pleasant, and a good fire sparkled 
in the grate. 

'^ Good morning, Lucy.'' 

She put down the sugar-tongs to give him her hand, and 
wished him good morning in a tone that no eavesdropper 
could have found fault with. They were quite civil to each 
other ; nay, courteous ; their intercourse much like that of true 
friends, or a brother and sister. After playing so long at this 


for the sake of keeping up appearances to their household and 
the world, it had become quite easy — a thing of habit. 

" What shall I give you ? " he asked. 

" An egg, please." 

*' Maclean thinks that fir-tree is dying." 

'' Which fir-tree ? ' 

** The large one by the ferns. He wants to root it up and 
make a bed there. AVhat do you think ? " 

'^ I don't mind how it is. Is your coffee sweet enough ? " 


Hewitt appeared with the letters. Two for Miss Blake, one 
for Lady Andinnian, none for Sir Karl. Lucy read hers ; glad of 
the occupation it afforded : for she only toyed with her break- 
fast, having little appetite now. 

" It is from mamma," said Lucy. " She is going to stay 
with my aunt in London. I suppose you did not call on Lucy 
Southall yesterday ? " 

"I? No." 

" You have promised to do so for some time past." 

" But I have not been able to do so. Is Mrs. Cleeve well ? " 

*'YeSj and papa is better. He is going to stay at home 
himself. They desire to be remembered to you." 

Karl bent his head in acknowledgment. And thus, talking 
mdifferently, the meal came to an end. Karl asked his wife if 
she would go out to look at the fir-tree, and hear what Maclean 
had to say about it. He was always scrupulous in consulting 
her wishes as the Court's mistress. She brought her parasol at 

Karl held out his arm, and she took it. As they went down 
the steps. Miss Blake appeared. They waited to greet her, and 
to shake hands. 

*^You must want your breakfast, Theresa. There are two 
letters for you on the table. Oh, and I have heard from 
mamma. She is going to stay with Aunt Southall in London." 

Lucy took KarFs arm again, and they went off with the 
gardener. Miss Blake probably did want her breakfast ; but 
she spared a minute or two to look after them. 

**I wonder if any one was ever so great a hypocrite?" ran 
her thoughts. " And to think that I once believed him to be 


the most noble and the best of men. He dared to speak dis- 
paragingly of that pure saint, Mr. Cattacomb, the other day. 
Good patience ! what contrasts there are in the world ! And 
the same Heaven made them both, and permits them both ! 
One cannot understand it here. As to Lucy— but I wash my 
hands of herP 

Lucy was soon back again. Miss Blake had read her letters, 
and begun her breakfast. Karl had passed into his own 

The morning wore on. Theresa went out again ; Karl was 
shut up, and then went out ; Lucy was left in the house alone. 
It was usually so. She had given her orders, and no earthly 
thing remained to be done — save let her heart prey upon itself. 
When she had pretty nearly gone out of her mind, she put her 
bonnet on, and betook herself to Mrs. Whittle, the widow of 
the man who had died suddenly at the station in the summer. 
Passing out at the extreme gate of the Court, Lucy had only to 
skirt the wood, and in three minutes was at the cottage : one of 
a row. 

She had taken to come here when she was particularly 
miserable— as she felt to-day. For the lesson it read to her 
was salutary, and acted as a sort of tonic. That this poor 
woman was slowly dying, there could be no doubt. She had 
been in ill health before her husband's death, and the blow 
struck too severely on the weakened frame. But for Karl and 
his wife, the family must have taken refuge in the workhouse. 
Lucy went in and sat down on a low wooden stool. Mrs. 
Whittle, about to-day, was in the easy-chair sent to her from 
the Court, her three little girls around her, the eldest eight years 
of age. Two younger children, boys, played on the floor. 

*' I am teaching them to sew, my lady," she said to Lucy. 
*' Bessy has her hand pretty well into it; but the other two 
haven't. When I lie awake at nights, my lady, and think how 
little they know of any sort of labour yet, and how soon I may 
be taken from them, my heart fails me. I can only set on to 
cry, and to pray God to forgive me all my shortcomings." 

The tears had come into her eyes, and were falhng down her 
hectic cheeks. She had been very pretty once, but the face 
was wasted now. Lucy's eyelashes were wet also* 


"But I think you look better, Mrs. Whittle. And as to 
shortcomings — we all might own to those.'* 

" It seems to me that I could have brought them on better 
if rd known what was coming, ma'am. Until that night when 
my husband was carried home on a shutter, I had not had a 
thought of death as being likely to concern any of us at home 
here. And now the time seems to be coming to an end, and 
I'm leaving them, and they know nothing." 

" I hope you will get better yet," said Lucy. 

" I don't think so, ma'am. I should Hke to if I could. The 
very distress that is upon me about my children seems as if it 
kept me back. Nobody can know what it is to leave a family 
of young children to the world, till they come to it themselves. 
There's a dreadful yearning upon me always, my lady, an 
aching like, at the thought of it. Mr. Sumnor, he is very good 
and kind, and he comes here, and tells me about heaven, and 
how free from care I shall be, once I get to it. But, oh, ma'am, 
wiien I must leave these little ones here, with nobody to say a 
word to keep them from the world's bad ways, how do I know 
that they will ever get to heaven ? " 

The woman had never spoken out as she was speaking to- 
day. Generally she had seemed calm and resigned — willing to 
get well or to die. Lucy was intensely sorry for her. She 
would take herself to task for being so miserable with this real 
distress close at hand, and for at least the rest of the day allow 
it to read her a salutary lesson. When she said good-bye to 
the woman, the tears were in her eyes. 

Passing in at the small gate again, she made her way to the 
acacia tree and sat under it, letting her parasol fall to the 
ground. Karl, who was at home again, could see her from his 
window, but he did not attempt to go to her. And so she idled 
away the morning in weariness. 

Theresa appeared at luncheon ; but Sir Karl did not. Lucy 
remembered that a parcel she was expecting from London 
ought to be at the station, and thought she would go in the 
pony-chaise for it. It was only an autumn mantle. Anything 
for a change — for a break in her monotonous life. So the 
chaise was ordered, and the groom to drive it. It came round, 
and she was getting in when Karl approached. 


^^ Are you going to drive yourself, Lucy ? " 

" Oh no. Robert is coming.'' 

*' I will go, then. We shall not want you, Robert." 

" But I was only going to the station," she said. 

" To the station ? " 

** I think my new mantle may be there." 

He drove off, turning towards the station. The mantle was 
not there : and Karl continued his drive as far as Basham. 
They said very little to one another. Just a remark on the 
scenery, or on any passing object : nothing more. Karl pulled 
up at the saddler's shop, to give some direction about a set of 
harness that was being made for him. Just as he got into the 
chaise again, some one passed and took off his hat, with a 
" Good afternoon. Sir Karl." 

It was Mr. Tatton. Karl wondered what he was doing in 
Basham. Of course the detective might be there for fifty things, 
totally unconnected with his profession : nevertheless, it awoke 
uneasiness in Karl's mind. When a heavy dread lies upon us, 
the most trifling event will stir up suspicion and fear. 

Karl drove home again, and Lucy went up to her little 
sitting-room. She was owing Mrs. Cleeve a letter, but held 
back from writing it. Great though her affection was for her 
mother, she hated now to write to her. It was impossible to 
fill up a letter — as it seemed to Lucy — and yet guard her secret. 
She could not say, ^' Karl and I are doing this ; " or '* Karl and 
I are doing the other : " and yet if she did not say something 
of this sort of their home-life, or mention his name, her fancy 
suggested that it would look strange, and might arouse sus- 
picion. Conscience makes cowards of us all. She might have 
sent a letter that day, saying, "I have just returned from a 
drive with Karl ; " and " Karl and I decided this morning to 
have that old fir-tree by the rocks dug up ; " and it would be 
quite true : but Lucy in her strict integrity so disliked the deceit 
the words would imply, that she shrank from writing them. 

Footsteps on the gravel below : /lis footsteps : and she went 
to the window to glance out. Yes, he was going straight down 
the gravel-walk, and through the large gates. Going where? 
Her heart beat a little quicker as the question crept in. To 
The Maze ? The query was always suggesting itself now. 


He turned that way — and that was all she could tell, for the 
trees hid the road from her view. He might be going to his 
agent's ; he might be going to some part or other of his estate ; 
but to Lucy's jealous mind the probability seemed clear that his 
destination was that retired house, which she already began to 
hate so much. And yet — she believed that he did not go in 
by daytime. Lucy wondered whether Fair Rosamond, who 
had disturbed the peace of her queen, was half as fair as this 
Rosamond, now turning her own poor heart to sorrow and 

More footsteps on the gravel : merry tongues, light laughter. 
Lucy looked again. Some of the young ladies from the village 
had called for Theresa, and they were now going on to St. 
Jerome's. For laughter such as that, for the lightness of heart 
that must be its inevitable accompaniment, Lucy thought she 
would have bartered a portion of her remaining life. 

Aglae came in, her hands and arms full of clouds of tulle and 
blue ribbon. 

*• Look here, my lady — these English modistes have no taste 
at all. They cannot judge. They send this heavy satin ribbon, 
saying it is the fashion, and they put it in every part of the 
beautiful light robe, so that you cannot tell which is robe — the 
tulle, or the ribbon. My lady is not going to wear that, say I ; 
an English modiste might wear it, but my young lady never. 
So I take the ribbons off." 

Lucy looked round listlessly. What did all these adornments 
matter to her ? Karl never seemed to see now what she was 
dressed in : and if he had seen, he would not have cared. 

" What is it you are asking me, Aglae ? " 

*^I would ask my lady to let me put just a quarter of as 
much ribbon on : and silk ribbon, not satin. I have some silk 
in the house, and this satin will come in for a heavier robe." 

*^Do whatever you like, Aglae." 

" That is well/' said Aglae. " But I wish my'lady would not 
show herself quite so indifferent," added the woman to herself 
as she withdrew. " She could not care less if she were an old 

The afternoon passed to its close, Lucy reading a little and 
working a little to beguile the time. Whether book or work 


lay before her, her mind was alike far away, brooding over the 
trouble that never left it. Then she went down to dinner in 
her evening dress of silk. No stranger was present : only her- 
self, Karl, and Theresa. It was generally thus ; neither she 
nor ne had spirits to bring guests about them often. Theresa 
told them of a slight accident that had happened at the station 
that afternoon, and it served for a topic of conversation. Dinner 
was barely over when Miss Diana Moore called in. She was 
not given to timing her visits ceremoniously ; but she was always 
welcome, for Karl and Lucy both liked her. Miss Diana 
generally gave them the news of the place, and she began now. 
In some inexplicable manner the conversation turned on The 
Maze. At least, something was said that caused the place to 
be incidentally mentioned, and it drew Miss Diana's thoughts 
to what they might otherwise not have reverted to. 

^'The senseless geese that people are!" she cried. ^'Did 
you hear of that ghost story that arose about The Maze ? " 

Karl bit his lip. Lucy looked at Miss Diana ; she had heard 

" Mother Jinks told me to my face the other day that there 
could not be a doubt it was Mr. Throcton's son haunting it. 
My brother — Mr. Moore — had seen it, she said, as well as 
Nurse Chaffen : a gentleman in evening dress, who appeared to 
them and vanished again. She beHeved it too.'' 

" I fancy it has been rather more materially accounted for," 
put in Miss Blake, not at all sorry of the opportunity to give a 
side fling at Sir Karl; 

" Well, what I hear people have found out now is, that the 
ghost was only Sir Karl Andinnian, who had called there after 
or before dinner," said Miss Diana, laughing. " What do you 
say to it, Sir Karl?" 

Sir Karl did not know what to say. On the one hand it was 
essential to do away, if possible, with the impression that any 
stranger had been at The Maze ; on the other, he did not care 
to admit that he paid evening visits there. Of the two evils, 
however, the last was the least. 

'' It may have been myself. Miss Diana. I cannot say, I'm 
sure. I remember I went over one evening, and stayed there 
a few minutes." 

Within the Maze. 23 


" But it was while Mrs. Grey was ill with fever." 

*^ Just so. I went to inquire after her." 

"Well, I suppose it was you, then. I asked William about 
it, but he is as close as wax when he likes, and professed not 
to know what I was talking about. One thing is clear that he 
could not have recognized you. Sir Karl. It was nearly dark, 
I believe. That little baby at The Maze is very dehcate." 

" By the way. Miss Diana, talking of sick people, what dqes 
Mr. Moore think of poor Whittle's widow ? " asked Sir Karl. 
" My wife says she is very ill." 

The conversation was turned — Sir Karl's object in speaking. 
Miss Diana talked of Mrs. Whittle, and then went on to other 

But it will readily be seen how cruelly these and similar 
incidents tried Lucy Andinnian. Had an angel come down 
from heaven to assure her that the gentleman in evening attire 
was not Sir Karl, she would have refused to believe it. Nay, 
he had, so to say, confessed it — in her presence. 

Miss Diana departed. Karl went out with her, and did not 
come in again. Lucy knew he had gone to The Maze. She 
went up to her room, and stood there in the dark watching for 
his return. It was nearly ten when he appeared. He had 
been spending all that time with her rival ! 

Even so. Karl had spent it at The Maze. As the autumn 
evenings grew darker, he could go over earlier and come away 
earher. Lucy wondered whether this state of things was to last 
for ever, and how much longer she could continue to bear and 
make no sign. 

To her weary bed again went she. To the anguish of her 
outraged heart ; to her miserable, sleepless hours, and her still 
more miserable dreams. Jealousy, as utterly mistaken and 
foundationless, has too often inflicted torment as lively as this. 

It is a " green-eyed monster, which doth make the food it 
feeds upon." 

( 355 ) 


We have now to return to Mr. Strange. That eminent detective 
was, to tell the truth, somewhat puzzled by his interview with 
Sir Karl Andinnian, held in the road j thrown, so to say, slightly 
on his beam-ends. The earnest assurances of Sir Karl — that 
the individual he had suspected was the agent Smith, and that 
there was not, and could not be, any gentleman residing at The 
Maze — had made their due impression upon him, for he saw 
that Sir Karl was a man whose word might be trusted. At the 
same time he detected, or thought he detected, an undue eager- 
ness on Sir Karl's part to impress this upon him j an eagerness 
which the matter itself did not justify, unless Sir Karl had a 
private and personal motive for it. 

Musing on this, Mr. Strange had continued to walk about 
that evening instead of going on to his lodgings ; and when 
Miss Blake surprised him under the trees — or, rather, surprised 
herself by finding him there — he had not sought the spot to 
watch the gate of The Maze, but as a seclusion in which he 
might think undisturbed. The stealthy entrance of Sir Karl 
Andinnian with a key taken from his pocket, and the whispered 
communication from Miss Blake, threw altogether another light 
upon the matter, and served to show what Sir Karl's personal 
motive might be. According to that lady's hints. Sir Karl was 
in the habit of stealing into The Maze, and it was no one but 
Sir Karl himself who had been seen by Nurse Chaffen. 

Mr. Detective Strange could not conceal from his acute brain 
that, if this were true, his own case was almost disposed of, and 
he might prepare to go back to town. Salter, the prey he was 
patiently searching out, was at The Maze" or nowhere — for Mr. 
Strange had turned the rest of the locality inside out, and knew 
that it contained no trace of him. If the gentleman in evening 
dress, seen by Nurse Chaffen, was Sir Karl Andinnian, it could 
not have been Philip Salter: and, as his sole motive for suspecting 
The Maze was that worthy woman's account of what she had seen, 
why^ the grounds of suspicion seemed slipping from under him. 


He thought it out well that night. Well and thoroughly. 
The tale was certainly plausible. Sir Karl Andinnian did not 
appear to be one who would embark on this kind of expedition ; 
but, as the detective said to himself, one could not answer for 
one's own brother. Put it down as being Sir Karl that the 
woman saw, why then the mystery of her not having seen him 
again was at an end : for while she was there, Sir Karl would 
not be likely to go to The Maze and show himself a second time. 

The more Mr. Strange thought it out, the further reason he 
found for suspecting that this must be the true state of the case. 
It did not please him. Clear The Maze of all suspicion as to 
Salter, and it would become evident that they had been misled, 
and that so much valuable time had been wasted. He should 
have to go back to Scotland Yard and report failure. Con- 
sidering that he had latterly been furnishing reports of the prey 
being as good as in his hands, the prospect was mortifying. 
This would be the second case in which he had signally failed. 

But it was by no means Mr. Strangers intention to take failure 
for granted. He was too wary a detective to do that without 
seeking proof, and he had not done with Foxwood yet. The 
first person he must see was Mrs. Chaffen. 

Somewhat weary with his night reflections and not feeling 
quite so refreshed as he ought to feel, for the thing had kept 
him awake till morning, Mr. Strange languidly sat down to his 
breakfast. Watchful Mrs. Jinks, who patronized her easy lodger, 
and was allowed to visit his tea, and sugar, and butter with 
impunity, observed this as she removed the cover from a dish 
of mushrooms that looked as though it might tempt an anchorite. 

'* You've a headache this morning, Mr. Strange, sir. Is it bad ?" 

^^ Oh, very bad," said Mr. Strange, who did not forget to keep 
up his role of delicate health as opportunity arose. 

'' What things them headaches are ! " deplored Mrs. Jinks. 
'^Nobody knows whence they come nor how to drive 'em 
away. Betsy Chaffen was nursing a patient in the spring, who'd 
had bilious fever and rheumatis combined ; and to hear what 
she said about that poor dear old gentleman's head " 

*^By the way, how is Mrs. Chaflen?" interrupted Mr. 
Strange, without ceremony, and with no regard to the old 
gentleman's head. *^ I have not seen her lately." 

MRS. CHAFF'EN disturbed. 357 

*^ She was here a day or two ago, sir ; down in my kitchen. 
As to how she is, she's as strong as need be : which it's thanks 
to you for inquiring. She never has nothing the matter with her." 

" Is she out nursing ? " 

" Not now. She expects to be called out soon, and is 
waiting at home for it." 

" Where is her home ? " 

" Down Foxglove Lane, sir, turning off by Mr. Sumnor's 
church. Bull, the stonemason, lives in the end house there, 
and she have lodged with 'em for years. Bull tells her in joke 
sometimes that some of 'em ought to be took ill, with such a 
nurse as her in the house. Which they never are, for it's as 
healthy a spot as any in Foxvv^ood." 

Mr. Strange had a knack of politely putting an end to his 
landlady's gossip when he pleased, and of sending her away. 
He did so now : and the widow transferred herself and her 
attentions to Mr. Cattacomb's parlour. 

People must hold spring and autumn cleanings, or where 
would their carpets and curtains be ? Mrs. Chaffen, though 
occupying but one humble room (with a choice piece of furni- 
ture in it that was called a ^' bureau " by day, and was a bed 
by night) was not exempt from the general sanitary obligation. 
Mrs. Bull considered that she instituted these periodical scrub- 
bings oftener than there was any occasion for, but Mrs. Chaffen 
like to take care of her furniture — which was her own — and was 
moreover a cleanly woman. 

On this self-same morning she was in the midst of it : her 
gown turned up about her waist ; her hands and arms, bare to 
the elbow, plunged in a bucket of soapsuds ; herself on her 
knees, and the furniture all heaped together, on the top of the 
shut-up bureau in the corner : when one of the young Bulls 
came in with the astounding news that a gentleman was asking 
for her. 

"Goodness bless me ! " cried the poor woman, turning cold 
all over ; " it can't be that I'm fetched out, can it, Sam ? — and 
me just in the middle of all this mess ! " 

" He said, was Mrs. Chaffen at home, and could he see her,'' 
replied Sam. " He's a-waiting outside." 

Mrs. Chaffen sat back on her heels, one hand resting on the 


bucket, the other grasping the wet scrubbing-brush, and her 
face the very picture of consternation as she stared at the boy. 
She had believed herself free for a full week to come. 

'' Is it Mr. Henley himself, Sam ?" 

" It ain't Mr. Henley at all," said Sam. '' It's the gentle- 
man what was staying at Mrs. Jinks's." 

'^ What the plague brings him here this morning of all others, 
when I've the floor in a sop and not a chair to ask him to set 
down upon ! " cried the woman, relieved of her fear, but vexed 
nevertheless to be interrupted in her work, and believing the 
intruder to be Mr. Cattacomb, come on one of his pastoral 
visits : for that excellent divine made no scruple, in his zeal, of 
looking in occasionally on Mr. Sumnor's flock as well as his 
own. " Parsons be frightful bothers sometimes ! " 

" Tain't the parson ; it's the t'other one," said Sam Bull. 

Mrs. Chaffen rose from her knees, stepped gingerly across 
the wet floor, and took a peep through the window. There she 
saw Mr. Strange in the centre of a tribe of young Bulls, dividing 
amongst them a piece of lettered gingerbread. Sam, afraid of 
not coming in for his share, bolted out of the room. 

^' Ask the gentleman if he'll be pleased to step in, Sam, and 
to excuse the litter," she called after the boy. " I don't mind 
/iim,'^ she mentally added, applying a mop to the wet floor, and 
then letting down her gown ; " and he must want something 
particular of me ; but I'd not have cared to stand Cattakin's 
preaching this busy morning." 

Mr. Strange came in in his pleasant way, admiring every- 
thing, from the bureau to the bucket, and assuring her he 
rather preferred wet floors to dry ones. Whilst she was reach- 
ing him a chair and dusting it with her damp apron, he held 
out his hand, pointing to where the cuts had been. 

*^ Look here, Mrs. Chaffen. I have been thinking of coming 
to you this day or two past, but fancied I might see you in 
Paradise Row ; for I'd rather have your opinion than a doctor's 
at any time. The hand has healed, you see." 

" Yes, sir ; it looks beautiful." 

" But I am not sure that it has healed properly, though it 
may look * beautiful,' ^ he rejoined. *^ Feel this middle cut 
Here 3 just on the seam." 


Mrs. Chaffen rubbed her fingers on the same check apron, 
and then passed them gently over the place he spoke of. 
" What do you feel? ^' he asked. 

" Well, sir, it feels a little hard, and there seems to be a kind 
of knot,'' she said, examining the place. 

" Precisely so. There's a stiffness about it that I don't 
altogether like, and now and then it has a sort of prickly sensa- 
tion. What I have been fancying is, that a bit of glass may 
possibly be in it still." 

But Mrs. Chaffen did not think so. In her professional 
capacity she talked nearly as learnedly as a doctor could have 
talked, though not using quite the same words. Her opinion 
was that if glass had remained in the hand it would not have 
healed : she believed that Mr. Strange had only to let it alone 
and have a little patience, and the symptoms he spoke of would 

It is not at all improbable that this opinion was also Mr. 
Strange's ; but he thanked her and said he would abide by her 
advice, and gave her a little more gentle flattery. Then he sat 
down in the chair she had dusted, as if he meant to remain for 
the day, in spite of the disorder of affairs and the damp floor, 
and entered on a course of indiscriminate gossip. Mrs. Chaffen 
liked to get on quickly with her work, but she liked gossip 
better. No matter how busy she might be, a dish of f/iaf never 
came amiss to her ; and she put her back against another chair 
and folded her bare arms in her apron, and gossiped back 

In a smooth and natural manner, apparently without inten- 
tion, the conversation presently turned upon the gentleman (or 
ghost) Mrs. Chaffen had seen at The Maze. It was a theme 
she had not tired of yet. 

*^ Now you come to talk of that," cried the detective, " do 
you know what idea has occurred to me upon the point, Mrs. 
Chaffen ? I think the gendeman you saw may have been Sir 
Karl Andinnian." 

Mrs. Chaffen, contrary to her usual habit, did not imme- 
diately reply, but seemed to fall into thought. 


^'Well now, that's an odd thing!" she broke forth at last 


" Miss Blake asked me the very same question, sir — was it Sir 
Karl Andinnian ? " 

"Oh, did she. When?" 

" When we had been talking of the thing in your rooms, sir 
— that time that I had been a-dressing of your hand. In going 
downstairs, somebody pulled me, mysterious like, into the 
Reverend Cattakin's parlour. I found it was Miss Blake, and 
she began asking me what the gentleman looked like, and 
whether it was not Sir Karl." 

"And was it Sir Karl?" 

" Being took by surprise in that way,'' went on Mrs. Chafifen, 
disregarding the question, " I answered Miss Blake that I had 
not had time enough to notice the gentleman and could not say 
whether he was like Sir Karl or not. Not having reflected 
upon it then, I spoke promiscuous, you see, sir, on the spur of 
the moment." 

*'And was it Sir Karl?" repeated Mr. Strange. "Now that 
you have had time to reflect upon it, is that the conclusion you 
come to ? " 

" No, sir; just the opposite. A minute or two afterwards, if 
I'd only waited, I could have told Miss Blake that it was not Sir 
Karl. I couldn't say who it was, but 'twas not him." 

This assertion was so contrary to the theory Mr. Strange had 
been privately establishing that it took him somewhat by 

** Why are you enabled to say so surely it was not Sir Karl ? " 
he questioned, laughing lightly, as if the matter amused him. 

" Because, sir, the gentleman was taller than Sir Karl. And, 
when I came to think of it, I distinctly saw that he had short 
hair, either lightish or greyish : Sir Karl's hair is a beautiful 
brown, and he wears it rather long." 

^'Twilight is very deceptive," remarked Mr. Strange. 

" No doubt of that, sir : but there was enough light coming 
in through the passage windows for me to see what I have 
said. I am quite positive it was not Sir Karl Andinnian." 

" Would you swear it was not ? " 

** No, sir, I wouldn't swear it : swearing's a ticklish thing : 
but I am none the less sure. Mr. Strange, it was not Sir Karl 
for certain''' she added impressively. " The gentleman was 


taller than Sir Karl and had a bigger sort of figure, broader 
shoulders like; and it rather struck me at the time that he 
limped in his walk. That I couldn't hold to, however." 

" Just the description of what Salter would most likely be 
now,'' mused the detective, his doubts veering about uncom- 
fortably. *^ He would have a limp, or something worse, after 
that escapade out of the railway-carriage." 

" Well, if you are so sure about it, Mrs. Chaffen, I suppose 
it could not have been Sir Karl." 

" I can trust my sight, sir, and I a77i sure. What ever could 
have give rise to the thought that it was Sir Karl ? " continued 
she, after a moment's pause. 

^^Why, you must know, Mrs, Chaffen, that Sir Karl Andin- 
nian is the only man in Foxwood who is likely to wear evening 
dress as a rule. And, being a neighbour of Mrs. Grey's, and 
her landlord also, it was not so very improbable that he should 
have called in, don't you see ?" 

Thus enhghtened, Mrs. Chaffen no longer wondered how 
the surmise had arisen. She reiterated her assertion that it 
was not Sir Karl ; and Mr. Strange, gliding into the important 
question of soda versus soap for cleaning boards, presently 
took an affable leave. 

There he was, walking back again, his thoughts almost as 
uncertain as the wind. Was Miss Blake's theory correct, or 
was this woman's ? If the latter, and the man was in truth 
such as she described him, taller and broader than Sir Karl, 
why then he could, after all, have staked his life upon The 
Maze being Salter's place of concealment. What if both were 
right? It might be so. Sir Karl might be paying these 
stealthy visits to Mrs. Grey, and yet be totally ignorant that 
any such person as Salter was at The Maze. They would 
hardly dare to tell him ; and Salter would take care to conceal 
himself when Sir Karl was there. At any rate, he — Mr. Strange 
— must try and set the matter to rest with all speed, one way 
or the other. Perhaps, however, that resolution was more easy 
to make than to carry out. As a preliminary step he took a 
walk to the poHce-station at Basham; and was seen in the 
street there by Sir Karl Andinnian, when he drove his wife 
over in the pony-chaise. 




The Maze, in all its ordinary quietness, was lying at rest under 
the mid-day sun. That is, as regards outward and visible rest : 
of inward rest, the rest that brings peace to the heart, there 
was little. It was the day following the expedition of Mr. 
Strange to the house of Bull, the stonemason. 

Mrs. Grey's baby was lying in its cot. Mrs. Grey, who had 
been hushing it to sleep in the chamber, prepared to change 
her nK)rning wrapper for the gown she would wear during the 
day. A bouquet of fresh-cut flowers lay on the dressing-table, 
and the chamber window stood open to the free, fresh air. 
Ann Hopley was in the scullery below, peeling potatoes for 
dinner, and the old man-servant was out somewhere over his 
work. As the woman threw the last potato into the pan, there 
came a gentle ring at the gate-bell. She turned and looked at 
the clock in the kitchen. 

" Who's that, I wonder ? It's too early for the bread. Any 
way, you'll wait till I've got my potatoes on, whoever you may 
be," concluded she, addressing the unknown intruder. 

The saucepan on, she went forth. At the gate stood an 
inoffensive-looking young man with a large letter or folded 
parchment in his hand. 

" What do you want ? " asked Ann Hopley. 

" Is this The Maze ? " 


" Does a lady named Grey live here ? '^ 


"Then I'm to leave this for her, please." 

Taking the key from her pocket, Ann Hopley unsuspiciously 
opened the gate, and held forth her hand for the parchment. 
Instead of giving it to her, the man pushed past ; and, to Ann 
Hopley's horror, Mr. Strange and a policeman suddenly 
appeared, and followed him. She would have closed the gate 
upon them ; and she made a sort of frantic effort to do so : but 
one woman cannot effect much against three determined men. 


*' You can shut it now," said Mr. Strange, when they were 
inside. " Don't be alarmed, my good woman : we have no 
wish to harm you." 

** What do you want ? — and why do you force yourselves in, 
in this way?" she inquired, frightened almost to death. 

" I am a detective officer belonging to the London police 
force," said Mr. Strange, introducing himself in his true 
character. " I bring with me a warrant to search the house 
called The Maze and its outdoor premises " — taking the folded 
paper from the man's hand. *^ Would you like me to read it to 
you before I go on ? " 

^^ Search them for what?'' asked Ann Hopley, feeling angry 
with herself for her white face. " I don't want to hear any- 
thing read. Do you think we have stolen goods here ? I'm 
sure you are enough to scare a body's senses away, bursting in 
like this ! " 

Mr. Strange slightly laughed. **We are not looking for 
stolen goods," he said. 

*^ What for then?" resumed the woman, striving to be calm. 
" For some one whom I believe is concealed here." 
*^ Some one concealed here ! Is it me ? — or my mistress ? — 
or my old husband ? " 
" No." 

" Then you won't find anybody else," she returned, with an 
air of relief. "There's no soul in the place but us three, and 
that I'll vow : except Mrs. Grey's baby. And we had good 
characters, sir, I can tell you, both me and my husband, before 
Mrs. Grey engaged us. Would we harbour loose characters 
here, do you suppose ? " 

It was so much waste of words. Mr. Strange went without 
further parley into the intricacies of the maze, calling to the 
policeman to follow him, and bidding the other — who was a 
local policeman also in plain clothes : both of them from 
Easham — remain near the gate and guard it against any 
attempted escape. All this time the gate had been open. 
Ann Hopley locked it with trembling fingers, and then followed 
the men through the maze, shrieking out words of remonstrance 
at the top of her voice. Had there been ten felons concealed 
within, she made enough noise to warn them all. 


'' For goodness' sake, woman, don't make that uproar ! " cried 
the detective. "We are not going to murder you." 

The terrified face of Mrs. Grey appeared at her chamber 
window. Old Hopley was gazing through the chink of the 
door of the tool-house, which he was about to clean out. The 
detective heeded nothing. He went straight to the house-door 
and entered it. 

** Wait here at the open door, and keep a sharp look round, 
inside and out," were his orders to the policeman. ^' If I want 
you, I'll call/' 

But Ann Hopley darted before Mr. Strange to impede his 
progress — she was greatly agitated — and seized him by the 

'* Don't go in," she cried imploringly ; ^Mon't go in, for the 
love of Heaven ! My poor mistress is but just out of her 
confinement and the fever that followed it, and the fright will 
be enough to kill her. I declare to you that what I have said 
is true. There's no one on these premises but those I've 
named : my mistress and us two servants, me and Hopley. It 
ca/i^if be one of us you want ! " 

** My good woman, I have said that it is not. But, if it be 
as you say — that there's no one else, no one concealed here — 
why object to my searching?" 

^*For her sake," reiterated the agitated woman; "for the 
poor lady's Sctke." 

" I must search : understand that," said Mr. Strange. 
" Better let me do it quietly." 

As if becoming impressed with this fact, and that it was 
useless to contend further, Ann Hopley suddenly took her 
hands off the detective, leaving him at liberty to go where he 
would. Passing through the kitchen, she began to attend to 
her saucepan of potatoes. 

Armed with his full power, both of law and of will, Mr. 
Strange began his search. The warrant had not been obtained 
from Sir Karl Andinnian, but from a magistrate at Basham : it 
might be that Mr. Strange did not feel sufficiently assured of 
Sir KarFs good faith in the matter : therefore The Maze was not 
apprized beforehand. 

It was not a large house ; the rooms were soon looked into, 


and nothing suspicious was to be seen. Three beds were made 
up in three different chambers : the one in Mrs. Grey's room 
and two others. Was one of these occupied by Salter ? The 
detective could not answer the question. They were plain 
beds in plain rooms, and it might be that the two servants did 
not sleep together. Knocking at the door, he entered Mrs. 
Grey's chamber. The baby slept in its cot : she stood at the 
glass in her dressing-gown, her golden hair falling about her. 

" I beg your pardon, madam ; I beg your pardon a thousand 
times," said the detective, with deprecation, as [he removed his 
hat. "The law sometimes obliges us to do disagreeable 
things ; and we, its servants, cannot help ourselves." 

"At least tell me the meaning of all this," she said with 
ashen face and trembling lips. And he explained that he was 
searching the house, armed with the authority of a warrant. 

" But what is it you want ? Who is it ? " 

Again he explained to her that they were looking after an 
escaped fugitive, who, it was suspected, might have taken 
refuge in The Maze. 

" I assure you, sir," she said, her gentle manner earnest, her 
words apparently full of truth, " that no person whatever, man 
or woman, has been in The Maze since I have inhabited it, 
save myself and my two servants." 

" Nevertheless, madam, we have information that some one 
else has been seen here." 

" Then it has been concealed from me," she rejoined. " Will 
you not at least inform me who it is you are searching for? In 
confidence if you prefer : I promise to respect it." 

" It is an escaped criminal named Salter," replied the officer, 
knowing that she would hear it from Sir Karl Andinnian, and 
wishing to be as civil to her as he could. 

" Salter ! " returned Mrs. Grey, showing the surprise that 
perhaps she did not feel. " Salter ! Why, Salter — at least if 
it is Salter — is the man who lives opposite these outer gates, 
and goes by the name of Smith. Salter has never been con- 
cealed here." 

The very assertion made by Sir Karl Andinnian. Mr. 
Strange took a moment to satisfy his keen sight that there was 
no entrance to this room, except by the door, and no piece of 


furniture large enough to conceal a man, and was then about 
to bow himself out. But she spoke again. 

" On my sacred word of honour, sir, I tell you truth. Sir 
Karl Andinnian — my landlord — has been suspecting that his 
agent, Smith, might turn out to be Salter : I suspected the 

^•'But that man is not Salter, madam. Does not bear any 
resemblance to him. It was a misapprehension of Sir Karl's.'' 
*' And — do I understand that you are still looking for him 
here ? — in The Maze ? I do not understand." 

'^ Not looking for that man. Smith, madam, but for the real 
Salter. We have reason to think he is concealed here." 

" Then, sir, allow me to affirm to you in all solemnity, that 
Salter is not, and never has been concealed here," she said 
with dignity. " Such a thing would be impossible without my 

He did not care to prolong the conversation. He had his 
work to do, and no words from her or any one else would deter 
him from it. As he was quitting the room, he suddenly turned 
to ask a question. 

" I beg your pardon, madam. Have you any objection to 
tell me whether your two servants, Hopley and his wife, 
occupy the same room and bed ? " 

For a moment or two she gazed at him in silence, possibly 
in surprise at the question, and then gave her answer almost 

*'Not in general, I believe. Hopley's cough is often trouble- 
some at night, and it disturbs his wife. But I really do not 
know much about their arrangements : they make them without 
referring to me." 

The detective proceeded on his mission. He soon discovered 
the hidden door in the evening sitting-room, and passed into 
the passage beyond it. Ah, if Salter, or any other criminal 
were in hiding within its dark recesses, there would be little 
chance for him now ! The passage, very close and narrow, 
had no exit on either side ; it ended in a flight of almost per- 
pendicular stairs. Groping his way down, he found himself in a 
vault, or underground room. Mr. Strange was provided with 
matches, and lighted some. It was a bare place, the brick 


walls dripping moisture, the floor paved with stone. Here he 
discovered another narrow passage that led straight along, it 
was hard to say how far, and he had need to strike more 
matches before he had traversed it. It ended in a flight of 
stairs. These he ascended, and — found himself in a summer- 
house at the extreme boundary of the garden. 

So far the search had not realized his expectations. On the 
contrary, it was so unsatisfactory as to be puzzling to his ex- 
perienced mind. There had been no traces of Philip Salter ; 
no indication that the passages were ever used ; and the doors 
had opened at his touch, unsecured by bolt or bar. 

Taking a look round him whilst he strove to solve more than 
one problem, the detective slowly advanced along the garden. 
All the garden ground surrounding the house, it must be under- 
stood, whether useful or ornamental, was within the circle of 
the maze. Turning a corner, after passing the fruit trees and 
vegetables, he came in view of the lawn and of the greenhouse ; 
also of Ann Hopley, who was plucking some thyme from the 
herb bed. 

" Have you found what you were looking for, sir ? " she 
asked, every appearance of animosity gone, as she raised her 
head to put the question when he approached. 

" Not yet." 

"Well, sir, I hope you are satisfied. You may take my 
word for it that you never will find it." 

"Think not?'* he carelessly said, looking about him. 

" Any way, I am not sorry that you have been through them 
subterranean places underground," she^resumed. " My mistress 
and I have never ventured to look into them, and she has not 
much liked the thought of their being there. We got Hopley 
to go down one day ; but his shoulders stuck in a narrow part, 
and he had to force 'em back and come up again." 

The detective stepped into the greenhouse, and stood a 
moment admiring the choice flowers and purple grapes ripening 
above. Ann Hopley had gathered her herbs when he came 
out, and stood with them in her hand. 

" If you'd like to take a few flowers, sir, I'm sure Mrs. Grey 
would not wish to object. Or a bunch of grapes. There's a 
fevv' already ripe." 


^* Thank you, not now." 

He opened the tool-house door, and looked in on Hopley. 
The old man was cleaning it out. Sweeping the floor with a 
besom and raising a cloud of dust enough to choke a dozen 
people, he was hissing and fizzing over his work. 

Hopley looked very decrepid to-day : his swollen knees were 
bent and tottering : his humped back was conspicuous as he 
stood ; whilst his throat was enveloped in some folds of an old 
scarlet comforter. 

"Mr. Hopley, I think," said the detective, politely. *^Will 
you please to tell me the name of the gentleman who's staying 

But Hopley, bent nearly double over his v/ork, took no 
notice whatever. His back was towards the detective; and he 
kept on his hissing and fizzing, and scattering his clouds of 

" He does not hear you, sir," said Ann Hopley, advancing. 
" He's as deaf as a post, and can make out no voice but mine : 
especially when he has one of his sore throats upon him, as he 
has to-day. For my part, I think these bad throats have to do 
with the deafness. He is always getting them." 

Stepping into the midst of the dust, she shook her husband 
by the arm somewhat roughly, and he raised his head with a 

" Here, Hopley, just listen a minute," she screamed at the 
top of her voice. *^ This gentleman is asking you to tell him 
the name of the gentleman who is staying here — that's it, is it 
not, sir.?'" — and Mr. Strange nodded. ^'The name, Hopley, 
the name." 

'*I've never see'd no lady here but the missis," said old 
Hopley at length, in his imperfect articulation, caused by the 
loss of his teeth, as he touched his broad-brimmed hat respect- 
fully to the stranger, and looked up, leaning on the besom. 

" Not a lady, Hopley ; a gentleman," bawled Ann. 

" I've see'd no gentleman here at all." 

"He is rather stupid as to intellect, is he not?" cried the 
detective to the wife. 

She resented the imputation. "Not at all, sir; no more 
than deaf people always seem to be." 

MFFLED. 369 

^'What gentleman be it?" asked Hopley. '^ Smith, the 
agent, comes for the rent at quarter-day, and Sir Karl Andin- 
nian came over one morning about the well." 

" Neither of those," roared out Mr. Strange. " The gentle- 
man that's hiding here." 

" Not them, Hopley," called Ann in his ear. " The gentle- 
man thaf s hiding here, he says.'^ 

*' Hiding where?" asked Hopley. *^In them underground 
places ? I never know'd as anybody was hiding in 'em." 

'' Ask him if he'll swear that no man whatever is in hiding 
here, Mrs. Hopley." 

" The gentleman says will you swear that no man is in hiding 
here at The Maze ? " repeated Ann^ somewhat improving upon 
the question. 

"' I'll swear that there's neither man nor woman in the place, 
sir, to my knowledge, hiding or not hiding, but us two and the 
missis," was the answer, given directly to Mr. Strange, and as 
emphatically as his utterly toothless mouth allowed. '^ I swear 
it to my Maker." 

"And you may trust him, sir," said Ann quietly. ^^I don't 
believe he ever told a lie in his life : much less took an oath to 
one. Hopley's honest and straightforward as the day, though 
he is a martyr to rheumatism." 

Mr. Strange nodded to the man and left him to his sweeping. 
The work and the hissing began again before he was clear of 
the door. Neither the tool-house nor the green-house afforded 
any possible chance for concealment — to ascertain which had 
doubtless been the motive for the detective's invading them. 

*^ I don't believe the old man knows about it," ran his 
thoughts ; " but the woman does.^^ 

Ann Hopley carried her herbs indoors, and began picking 
them. Mr. Strange, calling the policeman to his aid, made as 
thorough a search out of doors as the nature of the premises 
and the puzzling maze allowed. There was a closed-in passage 
of communication through the labyrinth, between the back of the 
house and the outer circle : but it was built solely with a view 
to convenience — such as the bringing in of coals or other things 
to The Maze ; or, as Ann Hopley expressed it, the carrying of 
a coffin out of it. The detective had its doors unbolted and 

Within the Maze. 24 


unbarred, and satisfied himself that it afforded no facility for 
concealment. Borrowing a candle, he went again to the secret 
passages underground, both policemen with him, to institute a 
more minute and thorough examination. 

No result ensued. And Mr. Detective Strange withdrew his 
men and finally departed himself; one mortifying word beating 
its unsatisfactory refrain on his brain : 

*^ Baffled." 



Once more on his weary way to London went Karl Andinnian, 
on the same weary business on which he had gone before ; but 
this time he was proceeding directly to the place he had 
hitherto shunned — Scotland Yard. 

The extreme step, taken by the detective, Tatton, in searching 
The Maze, had alarmed Karl beyond measure. True, the un- 
fortunate fugitive, hiding there, had managed to elude detection : 
but who could say that he would be able to do so another time, 
or how often these men of the law might choose to go in ? The 
very fact of their not being actually in search of Sir Adam, but 
of a totally different individual, made it seem all the more 
unbearably cruel. 

In Mrs. Grey's distress and perplexity, she had sent that same 
night for Karl — after the search — and he heard all that had 
taken place. Adam confessed he did not know what was to be 
done, or how to avert the fate — recapture — that seemed impend- 
ing ; and Rose almost fell on her knees before Karl, imploring 
him with tears to try and save her husband from the danger. 
Karl took his remorse home with him : remorse arising from 
the knowledge that he had brought all this about ; he, himself, 
by his insane inquiries after Salter : and, after much anxious 
consideration, he resolved to go on the morrow to Scotland 

It was past noon when he reached his destination. After he 
had confidentially stated the nature of his business — that it was 


connected with the search after Philip Salter, then being carried 
on at Foxwood by Detective Tatton— he was told that it was 
Mr. Superintendent Game who must see him on the point : but 
that at present the superintendent was engaged. Karl had to 
wait : and was kept waiting a considerable time. 

Could Karl's eyes have penetrated through two walls and an 
intervening room, he might have been greatly astonished to see 
the person with whom the superintendent was occupied. It 
was no other than Tatton himself. For the detective, taking 
the night after the search to think matters over, just as Karl 
had done, had come to the determination of placing the history 
of his doings at Foxwood before his superiors, and leaving with 
them the decision whether he should go on with his search, or 
abandon it. Accordingly, he also had proceeded to London 
that morning, but by an earlier train ; and he was now closeted 
with Mr. Superintendent Game — who had given him his original 
instructions, and had, specially, the Salter affair in hand — and 
was laying before him a minute narration of facts, together with 
his various suspicions and his failures. Before the interview 
was over, the superintendent was as well acquainted with The 
Maze, its rumours and its mysteries, and with sundry other 
items of Foxwood gossip, as Tatton himself could be. 

*' A gentleman waiting — had been waiting some time — to see 
Mr. Game on the Foxwood business," was the interruption that 
was first brought to them ; and both Mr. Game and Tatton felt 
somewhat surprised thereby. What gentleman could be engaged 
on the Foxwood business, except themselves ? 

^^Who is it?" asked the superintendent. And a card was 
handed in. 

" Sir Karl Andinnian." 

A moment's pause to revolve matters, and then the super- 
intendent issued his decision. 

" See him in five minutes." 

The five minutes were occupied with Tatton ; but he was 
safely away ere they had expired, carrying with him his orders 
to wait ; and Sir Karl Andinnian was shown in. The super- 
intendent and the visitor met for the first time, and glanced at 
each other with some curiosity. The officer saw, in the brother 
of the noted and unfortunate criminal, a pale, refined, and 


essentially gentlemanlike man, with a sad but attractive face 
that seemed to tell of sorrow ; the other saw a spare man of 
middle height, who in age might have been his father, and whose 
speech and manner betokened a cultivation equal to his own. 

Taking the seat offered him, Karl entered at once upon his 
business. He explained shortly and truthfully the unfortunate 
suspicion on his own part, that had led to his inquiries about 
Salter of Mr. Burtenshaw, and the subsequent despatch of 
Tatton to Foxwood. He concealed nothing; not even the 
slight foundation for those suspicions — merely the having seen 
the name of Philip Salter in a pocket-book that was in the pos- 
session of Philip Smith ; and related his recent explanation with 
Smith ; when he learnt that he and Salter were cousins. Karl 
told it all : and the officer saw, and beheved, that he was teUing 
it truly. Karl then went on to relate how he had himself sought 
an interview with Tatton on his last return from London — 
whither he had gone to try and convince Mr. Burtenshaw that 
it was not Salter. That he had learnt from Tatton then that 
his suspicions were directed to a house called The Maze, as the 
place of Salter's concealment, and that he. Sir Karl, had assured 
Tatton on his word of honour as a gentleman that it was alto- 
gether a mistake, for that Salter was not at The Maze, and never 
had been there. He had believed that Tatton was convinced 
by what he had said. Instead of which, he had taken the 
extreme and, under the circumstances, most unjustifiable step, 
of proceeding to the house with a search-warrant, and two 
policemen, to the terror of the lady inhabiting it, Mrs. Grey, 
and her two old servants. It was to report this to Tatton's 
superiors at headquarters that he had now come up from Fox- 
wood, Sir Karl added. Not, he emphatically said, to complain 
of Mr. Tatton or to get him reprimanded, for no doubt the 
man, in doing what he had done, had believed it was only his 
duty : but to request that instructions might be given him to 
leave Mrs. Grey in tranquillity for the future. She, feeling 
much outraged and insulted by the suspicion that she could 
have a common criminal like Philip Salter concealed in her 
home, had sent for him. Sir Karl, as her landlord, to beg him 
to protect her, if in his power, and to secure her from further 


Mr. Superintendent Game listened to Sir Karl's narrative as 
attentively and with as much apparent interest as though it 
comprised information that he had never in all his life heard 
of : whereas, in point of fact, Tatton had just been going over 
the same facts with him, or nearly the same. He admitted to 
Sir Karl that it no doubt did seem to Mrs. Grey an unjustifiable 
step, an unaccountable intrusion; if indeed Salter were not 
concealed there and she knew nothing of him. 

" I assure you, as I assured Tatton, that she does not," spoke 
Karl, with almost painful earnestness. " There is not an iota 
of foundation for supposing Salter ever was at Foxwood ; cer- 
tainly he was never at The Maze." 

" Tatton is an experienced ofhcer. Sir Karl. You may depend 
upon it that he had good reasons for what he aid." 

" That he fancied he had : I admit that. But they were 
utterly groundless. I should have thought that had any one 
lady, above another, been exempt from suspicion of any kind, 
it was Mrs. Grey. She lives a perfectly retired life at The 
Maze during her husband's absence, giving offence to none. 
To suppose she would allow the fugitive Salter, a man whom she 
never knew or saw, to be concealed within her domains is worse 
than preposterous." 

*' It is hazardous to answer so far for any one, Sir Karl," was 
the rejoinder — and Karl thought he detected a faint smile on 
the speaker's lips. *' Especially for a woman. The best of 
them have their tricks and turns." 

" I can answer for Mrs. Grey." 

Mr. Superintendent Game, whose elbow as he faced Sir Karl 
was leaning on a table, took it off and fell to pushing together 
some papers, as though in abstraction. He was no doubt 
taking time mentally to fit in some portions of Karl's narrative 
with the information possessed by himself. Karl waited a 
minute and then went on. 

" I am sure that this lady would be wilHng to make a solemn 
affidavit that she knows nothing of Salter ; and that he is not, 
and never has been, concealed there : if by so doing it would 
secure her exemption from intrusion for the future." 

" Yes, no doubt," said the officer somewhat absently. '* Sir 
Karl Andinnian," he added, suddenly facing him again after 


another pause, " I assume that your own part in this business 
was confined to the sole fact of your entering on the misappre- 
hension of taking your agent Smith to be Salter/' 

'^ That's all. But do you not see how I feel myself com- 
promised : since it was my unfortunate endeavour to set the 
doubt at rest, by applying to Burtenshaw, that has originated all 
the mischief and brought the insult on Mrs. Grey ? " 

" Of course. But for that step of yours we should have 
heard nothing of Salter in connection with Foxwood.*' 

Karl maintained a calm exterior : but he could have ground 
his teeth as he hstened. It was too true. 

"Then, with that one exception, Sir Karl, I am right in 
assuming that you personally hold no other part or interest in 
this affair, as regards Salter ? '' 

"As regards Salter? None whatever." 

"Well now," resumed the superintendent, in a confidential 
sort of tone, " we can talk at our ease for a minute. Does it 
not strike you. Sir Karl, as an impartial and impassioned looker- 
on, that there is something rather curious in the affair, taking 
one thing with another ? '' 

" I fail to catch your meaning, sir," replied Karl, gazing at 
the superintendent. " I confess no such idea has occurred to 
me. Curious in what way ? " 

" We shall come to that. Philip Smith has been your agent 
about six months, I believe." 

" About that." 

^* Whence did you have him ? Where did he live before ? " 

" I really do not know. My mother, the late Mrs. Andin- 
nian, who was occupying Foxwood Court during my absence 
abroad, engaged him. She became ill herself, was unable to 
attend to things, and deemed it well to employ some one to look 
after my interests." 

"Report runs in Foxwood — all sorts of gossip have come up 
to me from the place," the superintendent broke off to add — 
" that Smith is only your honorary agent, Sir Karl ; that he 
gives it out he is an old friend of the Andinnian family." 

" I can assure you that Smith is my paid agent. He has a 
house to live in, and takes his salary quarterly." 

" The house is exactly opposite the gates of The Maze ?" 


" Yes/' said Karl, beginning to feel somewhat uncomfortable 
at the drift the conversation appeared to be taking. 

** Is there any truth in the statement that your family knew 
him in earlier days ? You will see in a minute, Sir Karl, why I 
ask you all this. I conclude there is not.'' 

" I understood my mother to imply in her last illness that 
she had known something of him : but I was not sure that I 
caught her meaning correctly, and she was too ill for me to 
press the question. I had never heard of any Smith myself, 
and the chances were that I misunderstood her. He makes 
himself useful about the estate, and that is all I have to concern 
myself about." 

" Report says also — pardon me for recurring to it, Sir Karl — 
that he makes himself a very easy sort of agent ; seems to do 
as he likes, work or play, and spends most of his time smoking 
in his front-garden, exchanging salutations with the passers-by 
and watching his neighbour's opposite gate." 

Had it been to save his Hfe, Karl Andinnian could not have 
helped the change that passed over his countenance. What 
was coming next? He strove to be cool and careless, poor 
fellow, and smiled frankly. 

" I fancy he is rather idle — and given to smoking too much. 
But he does well what he has to do for me, for all that. Mine 
is not a large estate, as you may be aware, and Sir Joseph 
left it in first-rate condition. There is very little work for an 

"Well, now, I will ask you a last question, Sir Karl. Do you 
think Smith's residence at Foxwood is in any way connected 
with The Maze ? " 

*^ Connected with The Maze ! " echoed Sir Karl, his face 
never betraying the uneasiness that his beating and terrified 
heart was beginning to feel all too keenly. 

^^That is, connected with its tenants." 

" In what way would it be possible ? " 

" Look here. Philip Smith presented himself at Foxwood 
Court about six months ago, soliciting the agency of your 
estates from Mrs. Andinnian — as there is little doubt he did. 
Now, it was a very singular thing for him to do, considering 
that his previous life (as I happen to know) had in no way 


whatever qualified him for the situation. He knew no more of 
land, or the duties of a land-agent, than does this inkstand on 
my table. Why did he attempt to take such a place ? " 

*^ For the want of something else to do, probably," replied 
Karl. " He told me himself the other day, that his cousin's 
fall ruined him also, by causing him to be turned from his 
situation. As to the duties he has to perform for me, a child 
might be at home in them in a week." 

*' Granted. Let us go on. Mr. Smith's installation at your 
place as agent was closely followed by the occupancy of The 
Maze, Mrs. Grey and her servants arriving as its tenants. Was 
it not so. Sir Karl ? " 

" I — think it was," assented Karl, appearing to be recalling 
the past to his memory, and feeUng horrified as he saw that the 
man before him, powerful to know, to rule, and to act, was 
quite at home behind the scenes. 

" Well, I cannot help thinking that the one may have been 
connected with the other; that Smith's appearance at your 
place, and the occupancy of The Maze immediately following, 
may have been connecting-links in the same chain," continued 
the superintendent. " A doubt of it was floating in my mind 
before I had the honour of seeing you. Sir Karl : but I failed 
to detect sufficient cause ; there was none on the surface. You 
have now supplied that, by telling me who Smith is — Salter's 

"Indeed I cannot understand you," said Karl, turning never- 
theless from hot to cold. 

" The Maze is a place — with its labyrinth of trees and its secret 
passages and outlets — unusually favourable to concealment. 
A proscribed man might conceal himself there for years, and 
never be discovered unless suspicion were accidentally drawn 
on him. I think the chances are that Salter is there ; and that 
his cousin, Smith, is keeping guard over him, while ostensibly 
fulfilling only the duties of your agency. They may have dis- 
covered in some way the desirable properties of The Maze, and 
laid their plans to come to it accordingly." 

It was so faithful a picture of what Smith was really doing at 
Foxwood — though the one he was watching over was a very 
different man from Salter— that Karl i\ndinnian almost thought 


some necromancy must have been at work. All he could do 
was, to speak forcibly against the view, and to declare that 
there could not be any foundation for it. 

" That is only your opinion against mine. Sir Karl," observed 
the superintendent courteously. "You may rely upon it, I 
think, that the fact of Salter's being there would be kept from 
you, of all people." 

*' Do you forget the slur you would cast on Mrs. Grey ? " 

" As to that, Salter may be some relative of hers. Even her 
husband — even her brother. I remember it was said, at the 
time his case fell, that he had one sister. In either case, of 
course Mrs. Grey — the name she goes under — would not allow 
the fact of his concealment there to transpire to you." 

How could Karl meet this ? Sitting there, in his perplexity 
and pain, he could not see a step before him. 

" You have forgotten that Tatton has searched The Maze 
from roof to basement, Mr. Superintendent.'^ 

"Not at all. It tells nothing. There are no doubt other 
hidden places that he did not penetrate to in that first search. 
At best, it was only a superficial one." 

That " first " search. Was all security slipping from Karl's 
feet, inch by inch ? 

" Believe me, you are wrong," he said ; " your notion is an 
utterly mistaken one. I assure you on my word of honour, as 
truly and solemnly as I shall ever testify to any fact in this 
world, that Salter is not within The Maze ; that he never has 
been. Mind you, sir, I know this. I go over occasionally to 
see poor Mrs. Grey in her loneliness, and am in a position to 
speak positively." 

" An unmistakable smile sat on the officer's face now. " Ay," 
he said, " I have heard of your occasional nocturnal visits to 
her. Sir Karl. The young lady is said to be very attractive." 

At the first moment Sir Karl did not detect the covert mean- 
ing. It came to him with a rush of indignation. The superin- 
tendent had rarely seen so haughty a face. 

" No offence. Sir Karl. It v/as but a joke." 

"A joke I do not like, sir. I am a married man." 

" Est-ce que cela empeche "—the other was beginning : for 
the conclusion he had drawn, on the score of Sir Karl's evening 


visits was a very decided one ; but Karl put a peremptory stop 
to the subject. He deemed the superintendent most offensively 
familiar and unwarrantably foolish ; and he resented in his 
angry heart the implied aspersion on his brother's wife, the true 
Lady Andinnian, than whom a more modest and innocent- 
natured woman did not exist. And it never entered into the 
brain of Karl Andinnian to suspect that the same objectionable 
joke might have been taken up by people nearer home, even 
by his own wife. 

The interview came to an end. Karl went away, uncertain 
whether he had made sufficient impression, or not, to ensure 
The Maze against intrusion in the future. The superintendent 
did not say anything decisive, one way or the other, except 
that the matter must be left for his consideration. It might all 
have been well yet, but for this new complication; this sus- 
picion rather, touching the connection between Smith and 
Salter. He, Karl, had given rise to this, he and no other, by 
stating that day that the men were cousins. He asked himself 
whether Heaven could be angry with him ; for whatever step 
he took for good only seemed to lead to mischief and make 
affairs worse. One assurance he did carry away with him : 
that the young lady at The Maze might rest content : her 
peace personally should not be molested. But that was not 
saying that the house should not be. 

After Sir Karl's departure, the superintendent's bell rang and 
Tatton was recalled. A long conversation ensued. Matters 
known were weighed : matters suspected were looked at ; and 
Mr. Tatton was finally bidden back to Foxwood. 

Karl had gone directly from Scotland Yard to take the train. 
A fast one, which speedily conveyed him home. He walked 
from the station, and was entering his own gates when Hewitt 
— who seemed to have been gossiping at the lodge with the 
gardener's wife, but who had probably been lingering about in 
the hope of meeting his master — accosted him ; and they went 
up the walk together. 

" I am afraid something is amiss at The Maze, sir," began 
the man, looking cautiously around and speaking in low tones. 

" Something amiss at The Maze !" echoed Karl, seized with 
a terror that he did not attempt to conceal. 


" Not that^ sir ; not the worst, thank Heaven ! Sir Adam 
has been taken ill." 

" Hush, Hewitt. No names. Ill in what way ? How do 
you know it ? " 

'' I had been to carry a note for my lady to old Miss 
Patchett, Sir Karl. Coming back, Ann Hopley overtook me, 
walking from the station at a great rate. Her master had been 
taken most alarmingly ill, she said ; and at any risk a doctor 
must be had to him. They did not dare to call in Mr. Moore, 
lest he might talk to the neighbours, and she had been to the 
station to telegraph for a stranger." 

" Telegraph where ? '^ 

" To Basham, sir. For Dr. Cavendish." 

Karl drew a deep breath. It seemed to be perplexity on 
perplexity : and he saw at once how much danger this step 
must involve. 

'^ What is the matter with him, Hewitt ? Do you know ? " 

*^ It was one of those dreadful fainting-fits, sir. But they 
could not get him out of it, and for some time thought he was 
really dead. Mrs. Grey was nearly beside herself, Ann said, 
and insisted on having a doctor. He is better now, sir,'' 
added Hewitt, *^and I think there's no need for you to go over 
unless you particularly wish it. I went strolling about the 
road, thinking I might hear or see something more, and when 
Ann Hopley came to the gate to answer a ring, she told me he 
was quite himself again but still in bed. It was the pain made 
him faint." 

*^ I cannot think what the pain is," murmured Karl. " Has 
the doctor been ? " 

" I don't think he has yet. Sir Karl." 

Karl lifted his hat from his aching brow. He saw his wife 
sitting under one of the trees, and went forward to join her. 
The wan, weary look on her face, growing more wan, more 
weary, day by day, struck on him particularly in the waning 

" Do you do well to' sit here, Lucy ? " he asked, as he flung 
himself beside her, in utter weariness. 

" Why should I not sit here ? " 

*^ I fancy the dew must be already rising." 


*^It will not hurt me. And if it did — what would it 

matter ? " 

The half reproaching, half indifferent accent in which it was 
uttered, served to try him. He knew what the words implied 
— that existence had, through him, become a burden to her. 
His nerves were strung already to their utmost tension; the 
trouble at his heart was pressing him sorely. 

" Don't you^ by your reproaches, make matters worse, for 
me, Lucy, to-day. God knows that I have well-nigh more 
than I can bear." 

The strangely-painful tone, so full of unmistakable anguish, 
aroused her kindly nature. She turned to him with a sigh. 

" I wish I could make things better for both of us, Karl.'^ 

'^ At least, you need not make them worse. What with one 
thing and another " 

*^ Well ? " she said, her voice softened, as he paused. 

^^ Nothing lies around me, Lucy, but perplexity and dread 
and pain. Look where I will, at home or abroad, there is not 
as much as a single ray of light to cheer my spirit, or the 
faintest reflection of it. You cannot wonder that I am some- 
times tempted to wish I could leave the world behind me." 

** Have you had a pleasant day in town ? '" she asked, after 
a little while. 

*^ No, I have had an unsatisfactory day in all ways. And I 
have come home to find more to try me : more dissatisfaction 
here^ more dread abroad. ' Man is born to trouble as the 
sparks fly upwards.' Some of us are destined to reahze the 
truth in ourselves all too surely." 

He looked at his watch, got up, and walked indoors without 
another word. Lucy gazed after him with yearning eyes ; eyes 
that seemed to have some of the perplexity he spoke of in their 
depths. There were moments when she failed to understand 
her husband's moods. This was one of them. 

( 33i ) 


Karl Andinnian was tempted bitterly to ask of his own heart 
whether he could have fallen under the displeasure of Heaven, 
so persistently did every fresh movement of his, intended for 
good, turn into further danger. Poor Sir Adam had more 
need to question it than he ; for nothing but untoward chances 
seemed to pursue him. 

It is quite probable that when Ann Hopley and her flurried 
mistress decided to telegraph for Dr. Cavendish of Basham, 
they had thought, and hoped, that the doctor would come by 
train, pass quietly on foot into The Maze, so pass out again, 
and the public be none the wiser. Dr. Cavendish, however, 
who was from home when the telegram arrived, drove over 
later in his gig ; and the gig, with the groom in it, paced 
before The Maze gate whilst the doctor was within, engaged 
with his patient. 

Just then there occurred one of those unhappy chances. 
Mr. Moore, the surgeon, happened to walk by with his 
daughter, Jemima, and saw the gig — which he knew well — 
waiting about. It took him by surprise, as he had not heard 
that any one was ill in the vicinity. The groom touched his 
hat, and Mr. Moore went up to him. 

"Waiting for your master, James? Who is he with ? Who 
is ill?" 

" It's somebody down yonder, sir?" replied the man, point- 
ing towards The Maze; a reply that was not in the least 
intelligible to the surgeon. 

" Down where ? At the Court ? " 

" No, sir. At The Maze.'' 

"At The Maze! Why, who can be ill there?" cried Mr. 

" I don't know, sir. Master had a telegram, telling him to 

At that moment Dr. Cavendish was seen to leave the gate 


and come towards his gig. Mr. Moore walked quickly forward 
to meet him, and the gig turned. 

^^I suppose you have been called in to Mrs. Grey, doctor,'^ 
observed the surgeon, as he shook hands. " Has she had a 
relapse? I wonder she did not send for me. I have only 
just given up attending her." 

'^Mrs. Grey?" returned the doctor. ^'Oh no. It is a 
gentleman I have been called to see." 

" What gentleman ? " asked the surgeon in surprise. 
*^ There's no gentleman at The Maze." 

" One is there now. I don't know who it is. Some friend 
or relative of the lady's probably. Ah, Miss Jemima ! bloom- 
ing as ever, I perceive," he broke off, as the young lady came 
slowly up. *' Could you not give some of us pale, over-worked 
people a receipt for those roses on your cheeks ? " 

^'What is the matter with him?" interposed the surgeon, 
leaving his daughter to indulge in her giggle. 

Dr. Cavendish put his arm within his friend's, led him 
beyond the hearing of Miss Jemima, and said a few words in a 
low tone. 

" Why, the case must be a grave one ! " exclaimed Mr. 
Moore aloud. 

'^/ think so. I don't like the symptoms at all. From some 
cause or other, too, it seems he has not had advice till now, 
which makes it all the more dangerous." 

^' By the way, doctor, as you are here, I wish you would spare 
five minutes to see a poor woman with me," said Mr. Moore, 
passing from the other subject. " It won't hinder you much 
longer than that." 

" All right, Moore. Who is it ? " 

" It's the widow of that poor fellow who died from sunstroke 
in the summer : Whittle. The woman has been ailing ever 
since, and grave disease has now set in. I don't believe I 
shall save her ; only yesterday it crossed my mind to wish you 
could see her. She lives just below there ; in one of the cottages 
beyond Foxwood Court. 

They got into the gig, the physician taking the reins, and 
telling his groom to follow on foot. Miss Jemima was left to 
make her own way home. She was rather a pretty girl, with a 


high colour and a quantity of light brown curls, and her manners 
were straightforward and decisive. When the follies and vanities 
of youth should have been chased away by sound experience, 
allowing her naturally good sense to come to the surface, she 
would, in all probability, be as strong-minded as her aunt 
Diana, whom she already resembled in many ways. 

The autumn evening was drawing on : twilight had set in. 
Miss Jemima stood a moment, deliberating which road she 
should take ; whether follow the gig, and go home round by the 
Court, or the other way. Of the two, the latter was the nearer, 
and the least lonely ; and she might — yes, she might — encounter 
Mr. Cattacomb on his way to or from St. Jerome's. Clearly it 
was the one to choose. Turning briskly round when the de- 
cision was made, she nearly ran against Mr. Strange. That 
gentleman had just got back from London, sent down again by 
the authorities of Scotland Yard, and was on his way from the 
station. The Maze had become an object of so much interest 
to him as to induce him to choose the longer way round, which 
would cause him to pass its gates, rather than take the direct 
road to the village. And here was another of those unfortunate 
accidents apparently springing out of mere chance; for the 
detective had seen the gig waiting, and halted in a bend of the 
hedge to watch the colloquy of the doctors. 

*^Good gracious, is it you, Mr. Strange?" cried the young 
lady, beginning to giggle again. " Why, Mrs. Jinks declared 
this afternoon you had gone out for the day ! " 

" Did she ? " Well, when I stroll out I never know when I 
may get back again : the country is more tempting in autumn 
than at any other season. That was a doctor's gig, was it not. 
Miss Jemima?" 

^^Dr. Cavendish's of Basham," replied Miss Jemima, who 
enjoyed the honour of a tolerable intimacy with Mrs. Jinks' s 
lodger — as did most of the other young ladies frequenting the 
parson's rooms. 

" He must have- come over to see some one. I wonder who 
is ill ? " 

" Papa wondered, too, when he first saw the gig. It is some 
one at The Maze." 

" Do you know who ? '^ 


"AVell, they seem to talk as if it were a gentleman. 1 did 
not take much notice." 
"A gentleman?'" 

" I think so. I am sure they said ^ he ' and * him.^ Perhaps 
Mrs. Grey's husband has arrived. Whoever it is, he must be 
very ill, for I heard papa say the case must be * grave,' and the 
doctor called it ' dangerous.' They have gone on together now 
to see poor Mrs. Whittle." 

Not since he had had the affair in hand, had the detective's 
ears been regaled with so palatable a dish. That Philip Salter 
had been taken ill with some malady or other, sufficiently serious 
to necessitate a doctor, he fully believed. Miss Jemima resumed. 
*^ I must say, considering that papa is medical attendant there, 
Mrs. Grey might have had sufficiently good manners to consult 
him first." 

^* It may be the old gardener who's ill," observed the detective 
slowly, after turning his thoughts about. 

*^ So it may be," acquiesced Miss Jemima. *' He's only a 
poor creaky old thing, by all accounts. But no— they would 
hardly go to the expense of telegraphing for a physician for him, 
with papa at hand." 

" Oh, they telegraphed, did they ? " 
"So the groom said." 

'^The girl is right," thought the detective. ''They wouldn't 
telegraph for Hopley. It is Salter. And they have called in 
a stranger from a distance in preference to Mr. Moore close by. 
The latter might have talked to the neighbours. You have 
done me a wonderful service, young lady, if you only knew it." 
Mr. Strange did not offer to attend her home, but suffered 
her to depart alone. And Miss Jemima, who was rather fond 
of a little general flirtation though she did perhaps favour one 
swain above all others, resented the slight in her heart. She 
consoled herself after the manner of the fox with the grapes. 

*'He's nothing but a bear," said she, tossing her little vain 
head, as she tripped away in the deepening gloom of the even- 
ing. " It is all for the best. We might have chanced to have 
met Mr. Cattacomb, and then he would have looked daggers 
at me. Or — my goodness me ! — perhaps Aunt Diana." 

Mr. Strange strolled on, revolving the aspect of affairs in his 


official mind. His next object must be to get to speak to Dr. 
Cavendish and learn who it really was that he had been to see. 
Of course it was not absolutely beyond the bounds of possibility 
that the sick man was Hopley. It was not impossible that 
Mrs. Grey might have some private and personal objection to 
calHng in again Mr. Moore; or that the old man had been 
seized with illness so alarming, as to necessitate the services of 
a clever physician in preference to those of a general prac- 
titioner. He did not think anything of all this likely ; but it 
might be so ; and only Dr. Cavendish could set it at rest. 

Perhaps some slight hope animated him that he might obtain 
an interview with Dr. Cavendish on the spot, as he returned 
from Mrs. Whittle's cottage. If so, he found it defeated. The 
gig came back with the two gentlemen, and it drove off direct 
to the village, not passing Foxwood Court at all, or the de- 
tective ; but the latter was near enough to see it travelling along. 
Mr. Moore was dropped at his own house, and the groom — 
who had been sent on there — was taken up ; and then the gig 
went on to Basham. 

"I must see him somehow," decided the detective — "and 
the less time lost over it, the better. Of course a man in the 
dangerous state this one is represented to be m, cannot make 
himself scarce as quickly as one in health could ; but Salter has 
not played at hide-and-seek so long to expose himself unneces 
sarily. He would make superhuman efforts to elude us, and 
rather get away dying than wait to be taken. Better strike 
while the iron is hot. I must see the doctor to-night.'' 

He turned back to the station ; and was just in time to watch 
the train for Basham go puffing out. 

" That train has gone on before its time ! " he cried in anger. 

After reference to clocks and watches, it was found that it had 
gone on before its time by more than a minute. The station- 
master apologized : said the train was up three or four minutes 
too early ; and, as no passengers were waiting to go on by it, 
he had given the signal to start rather too soon. Mr. Strange 
gave the master in return a bit of his mind ; but he could not 
recall the train^ and had to wait for the next. 

The consequence of this was, that he did not reach Basham 
until past nine o'clock. Inquiring for the residence of Dr. 

Within the Maze. 25 


Cavendish, he was directed to a substantial-looking house near 
the market-place. A boy in buttons, who came to the door, 
said the doctor was not at home. 

" I particularly wish to see him," said Mr. Strange. " Will 
he be long ? " 

" Well, I don't know," repHed the boy, indifferently ; who, 
like the rest of his tribe, had no objection to indulge in semi- 
insolence when it might be done with safety. " Master don't 
never hardly see patients at this hour. None of 'em cares to 
come at night-time.'' 

'^I am not a. patient. My business wath Dr. Cavendish is 
private and urgent. I will wait until he comes in." 

The boy, not daring to object to this, ushered the visitor into 
a small room that he called the study. It had one gas-Hght 
burning ; just enough to illumine the book-shelves and a white 
bust or two that stood in corners on pedestals. 

Here Mr. Strange was left to his reflections. 

He had plenty of food for them. That Salter was at The 
Maze, he felt as sure as though he had already seen him. 
Superintendent Game had informed him who Smith the agent 
had acknowledged himself to be — Salter's cousin — and stated 
his own views of the motives that induced his residence at Fox- 
wood. This was an additional thread of belief in the web 
Mr. Strange was weaving; a link that seemed all but con- 
clusive evidence. In the short period that elapsed between his 
interview with Nurse Chaffen, chez elle, and his run up to 
London, he had seen his friend Giles, the footman, and by dint 
of helping that gentleman to trace back days and recall events, 
had arrived at a fact that could neither be disputed nor contro- 
verted — namely, that it could not have been Sir Karl Andinnian 
who was seen at The Maze by her and the surgeon. On that 
evening. Sir Karl, his wife, and Miss Blake had gone to a 
dinner-party at a few miles' distance. At the self-same moment 
of time that the event at The Maze took place they were seated 
with the rest of the company at the dinner-table, Mr. Giles 
himself standing behind in waiting. This was a fact : and had 
Miss Blake taken a little trouble to ascertain from Nurse 
Chaffen which evening it was that the mysterious gentleman had 
presented himself to view, and then recalled the day of the 


dinner, she would have discovered the fallacy of her belief in 
supposing him to have been Sir Karl Andinnian. 

Mr. Strange had, however, discovered it, and that was un- 
fortunately more to the purpose. Whatever might be the object 
of Sir Karl's private visits to The Maze — and up to that point 
Mr. Strange's opinion did not change, and he had laughed 
quietly over it with the superintendent — it was not Sir Karl 
who was seen that night. It was a great point to have ascer- 
tained : and the detective thought he had rarely held stronger 
cards at any game of chance than were in his hands now. 
That Mrs. Grey would prove to be Salter's sister, he entertained 
no doubt. 

But the waiting was somewhat weary. Ten o'clock struck. 
Unless Dr. Cavendish made his appearance shortly, Mr. Strange 
would lose the last train, and have the pleasure of walking all 
the way from Basham. He was standing before one of the 
busts — the late Sir Robert Peel's — when the door opened, and 
there entered a quiet, lady-like woman, with cordial manners 
and a homely face. It was Mrs. Cavendish. 

" I am so sorry you should have to wait so long for my 
husband," she said. *^If I knew where he had gone, I would 
send to him : but he did not happen to tell me before he went 
out. Your business with him is of importance, I hear." 

" Yes, madam : of importance to myself. Perhaps he will 
not be much longer now." 

* I should think not. Will you allow me to send you in a 
glass of wine ? " 

He thanked her, but declined it ; and she went away again. 
A short time, and a latch-key was heard in the house-door, 
denoting the return of its master. Some few words were ex- 
changed in the hall between Dr. Cavendish and his wife — and 
the former entered : a short, quick-speaking man, with grey 

As a matter so much of course that it hardly needs mention- 
ing, the detective had to be no less crafty in conducting this 
interview than he was in some other matters. To have said to 
Dr. Cavendish, " I want from you a description of the patient 
you were called in to see to-day, that I may ascertain whether 
it be indeed an escaped criminal of whom I am in search,^' 


would have been to close the doctor's mouth. It was true that 
he might open his hand and say, ^^ I am Detective Tatton from 
Scotland Yard, and I require you, in the name of the law, to 
give me all the information you can about the patient : " and, 
in that case it was possible that the doctor might deem himself 
obliged to give it. But he preferred to keep that master-stroke 
in abeyance, and try another way. 

He possessed pleasant manners, and had a winning way with 
him — it has been already stated ; he spoke as a gentleman. 
Sitting down close to the doctor, he began inquiring in an 
earnest tone after the new patient at The Maze, and spoke so 
feelingly about patients in general, that he half gained the 
physician's heart. 

"You are some close friend of the gentleman's?" observed 
Dr. Cavendish. And the word " gentleman " set the one great 
doubt at rest. 

" I am most deeply interested in him," said the detective : 
and the unsuspicious doctor never noticed the really sophistical 
nature of the answer. 

" Well, I am sorry to tell you that I think him very ill. I 
don't know what they can have been about, not to call in advice 
before." And in a few short words he stated what disease the 
symptoms seemed to threaten. 

It startled the detective. He was sufficiently acquainted 
with surgery to know that it was one of difficulty and danger. 

*^ Surely, Dr. Cavendish, he is not threatened with tJiatV 

*^ I fear he is." 

" Why, it will kill him ! It is not curable, is it ? " 

" Rarely, if ever, when once it has certainly set in." 

*^ And it kills soon." 

" Generally." 

Mr. Strange looked very blank. To hear that his prize might 
escape him by death — or might die close upon his capture, was 
eminently unsatisfactory. It would be a termination to the 
great aifair that he had never thought of; would tarnish all 
the laurels from a business point of view : and he was, besides, 
not a hard-hearted man. 

" He is young for that sort of thing, is he not, Dr. Caven- 


" Yes. Rather so." 

" What brings it on, sir, in general ? " 

'*0h, various causes." 

" Will trouble induce it ?— I mean great trouble ; anxiety ; 
care ? " 

** Sometimes. Especially if there should be any hereditary 
tendency to it In the system." 

" Well, I did not expect to hear this.'' 

" Are you his brother ? " asked the doctor, seeing how cut- 
up the visitor looked. " Not that I detect any likeness." 

" No, I am not his brother ; or any other relative. Do you 
consider it a hopeless case, Dr. Cavendish ? " 

" I have not said that. I should not be justified in saying 
it. In fact, I have not yet formed a positive opinion on the 
case, and cannot do so until I shall have examined further into 
it. All I say at present is, that I do not like the symptoms." 

" And — if the symptoms turn out to be what you fear ; to 
threaten the malady you speak of — what then ? " 

**Why then there will be very little hope for him." 

" You are going over to him again, then ? " 

" Of course. To-morrow. He is not in a state to be left 
without medical attendance." 

" How long do you think it has been coming on, sir ? ' 

" I cannot tell you that. Not less than a twelvemonth, if it 
be what I fear." 

Mr. Strange played with his watch-chain. He still wanted 
the description of the man — though, in fact, he felt so sure as 
hardly to need it, only that detectives do not leave anything to 

*^ Would you mind telling me what you think of his looks, 
Dr. Cavendish ? " 

" Oh, as to his looks, they are the best part about him. His 
face is somewhat worn and pallid, but it is a very handsome 
face. I never saw a finer set of teeth. His hair and short 
beard seem to have gone grey prematurely, for I should scarcely 
give him forty years." 

" He is only five-and-thirty," spoke the detective, thinking of 
Salter. And that, as the reader may recall, was also about the 
gige of Sir Adam, 


" Only that ? Then in looks he has prematurely aged." 

" In his prime, say two or three years ago, he was as good- 
looking a man as one would wish to see,'^ observed the detec- 
tive, preparing to give a gratuitous description of Salter. " A 
fine, tall, upright figure, strongly-built withal ; and a pleasant, 
handsome, frank face, with fine dark eyes and hair, and a 
colour fresh as a rose '^ 

*'Ay," acquiesced the physician: "I only saw him in bed, 
and he is now much changed, but I should judge that would 
be just the description that once applied to him. You seem to 
hint at some great trouble or sorrow that he has gone through : 
he gives me just that idea. Of what nature was it? — if I may 

" It was trouble that was brought on by himself — and that 
is always the most trying to bear. As to its nature — you must 
pardon me for declining to particularize it, Dr. Cavendish, but 
I am really not at liberty to do so. Do not put the refusal 
down to discourtesy. The trouble is not yet over : and the 
chances are that you will certainly hear all about it in a day 
or two." 

Dr. Cavendish nodded. He assumed the words to imply 
that the patient himself would enlighten him. As to the detec- 
tive, his mission was over ; and well over. He had learnt all 
he wanted : what he had suspected was confirmed. 

" That beautiful young woman, living alone at The Maze — 
what relative is she of his ? " asked the doctor, as his visitor 
rose and took up his hat. 

^^His sister," was the somewhat hazardous answer. 

" Oh, his sister. Mr. Moore could not make out who the 
patient was. He thought it might be the husband who had 
returned. When I asked his name, to write a prescription for 
the chemist, Mrs. Grey said I might put it in hers — Grey." 

" I thank you much for your courtesy. Dr. Cavendish." 

^'You are welcome, sir," said the doctor. ^^Mind, I have 
not expressed any certain opinion as to his non-recovery. Don't 
go and alarm him. What I have said to you is said in con- 

" You may depend upon me. Good night." 

Mr. Detective Strange had to walk from Basham, for 


the last train was gone and his return-ticket was useless. 
Basham police-station was almost opposite the doctor's, and 
he stepped in to leave a message on his way. In the satisfac- 
tion his visit had afforded him, he did not at all mind the night- 
walk. On the morrow, the long-sought-for Salter, who had 
dodged them so vexatiously, would be in their hands, the prey 
would have fallen. A satisfaction, however, that was not with- 
out alloy, in the damping circumstances that encompassed the 
man's state of health. And for that he could only feel com- 

Midnight was chiming from the clock at Foxwood as he 
reached The Maze — for he preferred to take that roundabout 
way. Halting at the gate, he looked about and listened for a 
minute or two. Then he let himself in with his master-key, 
and went through the labyrinth. 

The house lay in silence. All seemed still as the grave. 
There was no light, no sound, no token of illness within ; no, 
nor even of inmates. He gently put the said key in the 
entrance-door to see if it would yield. No : the door was not 
only locked but bolted and barred. He went to the summer- 
house, leading up from the underground places, and found the 
trap-door there also bolted and barred within. All v/as as 
secure as wary hands could make it. 

" And it is welcome to remain so until to-morrow," breathed 
the detective as he turned to thread his silent steps back 
through the maze. '^ But then, Mr. Philip Salter, you are mine. 
Neither bolts nor bars can save you then." 

And he finally let himself out again at the gate with that 
ingenious instrument, the key. To be pohte, we will apply a 
French name to it, and call it a passe-partout. 

But Dr. Cavendish, reflecting afterwards upon the interview, 
rather wondered who the stranger was, and whence he had 
come; and remembered then that he had totally omitted to 
ask his name. 




The morning sun was chasing the dew from the grass : and 
the lawn of The Maze, glittering in the welcome rays, told no 
tales of the strange feet that had, unbidden and unsuspected, 
trodden it in the night. Mrs. Grey, looking wondrously pretty 
and delicate in her white morning gown, with her golden hair 
as bright as the sunshine, sat at breakfast in a little room whose 
window was beside the entrance-porch. Her baby, wide awake, 
but quiet and good, lay covered up on the sofa in its night- 
dress. She was talking to it as she ate her breakfast, and the 
wide-open little eyes were turned to her as if it understood. 

" Good little darling ! Sweet, gentle baby ! It does not 
scream or fight as other babies do : no, never. It is mamma's 
own precious treasure — and mamma is going to dress it pre- 
sently and put on its pretty worked robe. Oh, baby, baby ! " 
she broke off, her mood changing, and her heart-distress rising 
to the surface, above the momentary make-believe dalliance, 
" if we could only be at rest as others are ! AVe should be 
happier than the day has hours in it." 

The accession of illness, attacking Sir Adam on the previous 
day, the great risk they ran in calling in a doctor to him, had 
shaken poor Rose's equanimity to its centre. She strove to be 
brave always, for his sake ; she had been in the habit of sup- 
pressing as well as she could all signs of the dread that ever 
lay upon her, and she had done so in a degree yesterday. 
But in the evening when the doctor had gone, and the day and 
its troubles were over, she had yielded to a sudden fit of 
hysterical weeping. Her husband came into the room in the 
midst of it. He partly soothed, partly scolded her. Of what 
use fretting, he asked ; better take matters as they came. With 
almost convulsive efforts she ceased her sobs and dried her 
eyes ; and turned the tables on him by gently reproaching him 
with getting up, when Dr. Cavendish had peremptorily enjoined 
him to remain in bed. Sir Adam laughed at that : saying he 


felt none the worse for his fainting-fit, or whatever it was, and 
was not going to lie in bed for all the doctors in Christendom. 

The morning sun is a great restorer, and Rose felt its influence. 
During her sleepless night, nothing could be more dishearten- 
ing, nothing more gloomy than the view taken by her mind : 
but this morning, with that glorious light from heaven shining 
on all things, she and the earth alike revived under it. One 
great thing she felt incessant thankfulness for; it was a real 
mercy — that that miserable visitation of the detective and his 
policemen had not been delayed till the day of Sir Adam's ill- 
ness. Had they caught him in bed, no earthly power, she 
thought, could have saved him. Karl, stealing over for^ a few 
minutes at night, to see for himself what this alarm of illness 
could mean, had warned them both to be prepared, for he had 
reason to fancy the search might be repeated. 

'^ This place is growing more dangerous day by day," mur- 
mured Rose to herself, pouring out another cup of tea. "Ob, 
if we could only get away from it ! London itself seems as 
though it would be safer than this." 

She proceeded slowly with her meal, her thoughts buried in 
schemes for their departure. Of late she had been ever weav- 
ing a web of possibility for it, a cunning plan of action : and 
she thought she had formed one. If necessary, s/ie would stay 
on at The Maze with her baby — oh, for months — for years 
even — so that Adam could only get away. Until this man, 
the detective — more feared by her, more dreadful to contem- 
plate than any man born into the world yet — should take his 
departure from the place, nothing might be attempted : they 
could only remain quiet ; taking what precautions they could 
against surprise and recapture, and she praying always that her 
husband might be spared this crowning calamity : beyond 
which, if it took place, there would never more be anything in 
this world but blank despair. 

Ann Hopley was upstairs, making the beds, and attending 
to matters generally. Until her room was ready, and the fire 
had burnt up well to dress the baby by, Mrs. Grey would stay 
where she was : consequently she was at liberty to linger over 
her breakfest. There was something in the extreme quietness 
of the little child and in its passive face, that to a m,ore 


experienced eye might have suggested doubts of its well-being : 
a perfectly healthy infant is apt to be as troublesome as it can 
be. Mrs. Grey suspected nothing. It had improved much 
since its baptism, and she supposed it to be growing strong and 
healthy. A soft, sweet, plaintive note escaped the child's lips. 

^'Yes, my baby. Mamma has not forgotten you. The 
room will soon be warm, and baby shall be dressed. And 
then mamma will wrap it up well and wrap herself up, and sit 
out of doors in the sunshine. And papa " 

The words broke off in a low sound of horror; her heart 
seemed to die in the faintness of despair. Something like a 
dark shadow had passed the window, shutting out for a moment 
the glad sunshine on the grass. It was Mr. Detective Strange ; 
and, following closely on his heels, were the two same police- 
men, both of them this time in official clothes. They had 
come through the maze without warning, no doubt by the help 
of the passe-partout, and were making swiftly for the entrance- 
door, that was open to the morning air. Her supposition was 
that they had fathomed Adam's system of concealment. 
u "God help us! God save and protect us!" breathed the 
poor wife, clasping her hands, every drop of blood leaving her 

Mr. Strange, who had seen her through the window, was in 
the room without a moment's delay. He was courteous as 
before : he meant to be as considerate as the nature of his 
mission allowed him to be : and even before he had spoken a 
word, the keen, practised eye took in the visible signs. The 
small parlour, affording no possibility for the concealment of 
Salter ; the baby on the sofa : the breakfast, laid for one only, 
of which Mrs. Grey was partaking. 

He was very sorry to be obliged to intrude upon her again : 
but he had orders once more to search The Maze, and could 
only obey them. And he begged her to believe that she 
herself, individually, should be subjected to no annoyance or 

She made no answer : she could collect neither thoughts nor 
words to do so in her terrible fear. Mr. Strange retreated with 
a bow and closed the door again, making a mental comment 
upon her evident distress, her ghastly looks. 


" There's no mistake, I think, that he is ready to our hands 
this time : her face alone would betray it. The curious thing 
is — where was he before ? " 

Ann Hopley had finished the rooms, and was kneeling before 
the fire in her mistress's chamber, coaxing some obstinate coal 
to burn, and blowing with all her might, when a slight noise 
caused her to turn. There stood Mr. Strange, a policeman at 
his elbow. She had not heard the entrance. Up she got, and 
stood staring ; unable to believe her eyes, and startled almost 
into screaming. But she knew how much lay upon her — 
almost life or death. 

" Goodness me ! " cried she, speaking freely, as she strove to 
brave it out, and trembling inwardly. " What ever brings you 
folks here again ? '' 

"We have to go through the house once more." 

" How did you get in ? " 

" Quite legally," replied Mr. Strange. " I have to do my 

So utterly was she unprepared for this, and perhaps fearing 
that in her state of dismay she might let fall some dangerous 
word of admission ; feeling also that she could do no good to 
her master by staying, but might do harm ; Ann Hopley with- 
drew, after giving the fire a gentle Hft with the poker, and went 
down to the kitchen with a cool air, as if resolved not to let 
the affair interrupt her work. Taking up a small basket of 
what she would have termed ^^fine things," recently washed, 
consisting of caps and bits of lace, and similar articles apper- 
taining to the baby, she carried it out of doors beyond the end 
of the lawn, and began putting the things on gooseberry bushes 
to dry. Old Hopley was pottering about there, doing some- 
thing to the celery-bed. The policeman left on guard below, 
and standing so that his eyes could command all things, sur- 
veyed her movements critically. She did not go out of his 
sight, but came back with the basket at once.. Whilst spread- 
ing the things, she had noted him watching her. 

" I dare say I'm a kind of genteel prisoner," ran her thoughts. 
" If I attempted to go where those ugly eyes of his couldn't 
follow me, he might be for ordering me back, for fear I should 
give warning to the master that they are here. Well, we can 


do nothing ; it is in Heaven's hands : better they came to-day 
than yesterday ! " 

Mr. Detective Strange had rarely felt surer of anything than 
that he should find Philip Salter in bed, and capture him 
without the slightest difficulty in his sick state. It was not so 
to be. Very much to his amazement, there appeared no sign 
whatever of a sick man about the place. The rooms were all 
put in order for the day, the beds were made : nothing was 
different from what it had been at the time of his previous 
entrance. Seek as he would, his practised eye could find no 
trace — nay, no possibility — of any hidden chamber. In fact, 
there was none. 

"Where the deuce can the fellow be?" mused Mr. Strange, 
gazing about him with a thoughtful air. 

The underground places were visited with as little success, 
though the search he made was minute and careful. He could 
not understand it. That Salter had not been allowed time 
to escape out of doors, so rapid was their first approach, he 
knew ; nevertheless the trees and grounds were well examined. 
Hopley lifted his poor bent back from his work in the celery- 
bed — from which, as the watching policeman could have 
testified, he had not stirred — to touch his straw hat when the 
detective passed. Mr. Strange answered by a nod, but did not 
accost him. To question the deaf old man would only be 
waste of time. 

There was some mystery about all this : a mystery he — even 
he — could not at present fathom. Just one possibility crossed 
his mind, and it was exceedingly unwelcome — that Salter, 
alarmed by the stir that was being made, had in truth escaped. 
Escaped, in spite of the precautions that he. Strange, in con- 
junction with the police of Basham, had been for the past day 
or two taking, secretly and unobserved. 

He did not believe it. He did not wish to believe it. And, 
in truth, it seemed to him to be impossible, for more reasons 
than one. A man in the condition of health hinted at by Dr. 
Cavendish would be in no state for travelling. But still — with 
The Maze turned, as he honestly believed, inside out and 
showing no sign or trace of Salter, where was he ? 

This took up some time. Ann Hopley had put forward her 


preparations for dinner, had answered the butcher's bell and 
taken in the meat : and by and by went across the garden 
again to cut two cauliflowers. She was coming back with 
them in her apron, when Mr. Strange met her, and spoke. 

"I have a question or two to put to you, Mrs. Hopley, 
which I must desire of you to answer — and to answer correctly. 
Otherwise I shall be obliged to summon you before the magis- 
trates and compel your answers on your oath. If you are 
wise, you will avoid giving me and yourself that trouble.'' 

" As far as answering you goes, sir, I'd as soon answer as be 
silent," she returned, in a temperate but nevertheless injured 
tone. " But I must say that it puts my temper up to see an 
innocent and inoffensive young lady insulted as my poor 
mistress is. What has she done to be signalled out for such 
treatment? If she were not unprotected here, a lone woman, 
you wouldn't dare to do it. You told her the other day you 
were in search of one Salter : and you know that you looked 
in every hole and corner of our house, and must have satisfied 
yourself that no Salter was here. And yet, here you come in, 
searching again ! " 

" It was not Salter, I suppose, who was ill yesterday ; for 
whom Dr. Cavendish was telegraphed ? " rejoined Mr. Strange, 
significantly, having allowed her speech to run on to the end. 
*^ Perhaps you will tell me that ? " 

"Salter ! That I'll take my oath it was not, sir." 

'' Who was it, then ? " 

"Well, sir, it was no one that you could have any concern 

" I am the best judge of that. Who was it ? Remember, I 
ask you in the name of the law, and you must answer me." 

"That gentleman came down on a short visit to my mistress, 
and was taken ill while he stayed. It frightened us out of our 
senses ; it was a fainting-fit, or something of that sort, but he 
looked for all the world like a man dead ; and I ran off and 
telegraphed for a doctor." 

The detective's eyes were searching Ann Hopley through and 
through. She did not flinch ; and looked innocent as the day. 

" What has become of him ? " 

" He went away again last night, sir " 


" Went away, did he ? ^' in a tone of incredulity. 

** He did, sir. After the doctor left, he got up, and dressed, 
and came down, saying he was better. He didn't seem to 
think much of his illness ; he had been as bad, he said, before. 
I confess I was surprised, myself, to hear he was going away, 
for I thought him not well enough to travel. But I believe he 
was obliged to go." 

** What was his name ? " 

" I did not hear it, sir. He was here only a few hours in all." 

" Listen, Mrs. Hopley : if you will tell me where that gentle- 
man came from, and what his name is, I will give you five 

Her eyes opened, apparently with the magnitude of the offer. 

" I wish I could, sir. I'm sure I should be glad to earn all 
that, if it were in my power ; for I don't believe Hopley will be 
able to work much longer, and we are laying up what little we 
can. I think he came from London, but I am not sure : and 
I think he's going off to some foreign country, for he and my 
mistress were talking of the sea. She wished him a good 
voyage and a safe landing. I heard her." 

The detective paused. Was this true or false? *' What was 
his name ? Come, Mrs. Hopley ? " 

*'Sir, I have said that I did not hear his name. He came 
without our expecting him, or I might have heard it before- 
hand. My mistress called him Edward : but of course that 
must be his Christian name. I understood him to be some 
relation of hers." 

" I wonder what Hopley could tell me of this ? " cried the 
detective, looking at her. 

^^ Hopley could tell you nothing — but of course you are 
welcome to ask him if you please. Hopley never saw him at 
all, as far as I know ; and I did not say anything to the old 
man about it. If you question Hopley, sir, I must help you — 
you'd be a month making him hear, yourself." 

" How is it that you keep your husband in ignorance of 
things ? — as you seem to do.'^ 

**0f what things, sir?" rejoined the woman. "I'm sure I 
don't keep things from him : I have no things to keep. It's 
true I didn't tell him of this. I was uncommonly tired last 


night, for it had been a trying day, and I was full of work 
besides ; and it takes no little exertion, I can testify, to make 
Hopley understand. One can't gossip with him, as one can 
with people who have their hearing." 

This was no doubt true. The detective was frightfully at 
fault, and did not conceal from himself that he was so. The 
woman seemed so honest, so open, so truthful; and yet he 
could have staked his professional fame that mystery lay some- 
where, and that the sick man had not gone away. Instinct, 
prevision — call it what you will — told him that the man was 
lying close to his hand — if he could only put that hand out in 
the right direction and lay it on him. Bending his head, he 
took a few steps about the grass : and Ann Hopley, hoping she 
was done with, went into the kitchen with her cauliflowers. 

Letting them fall on to the dresser out of her apron she 
gave a sharp look round, indoors and out. The detective was 
then conversing with his two policemen, whom he had called 
up. Now was her time. Slipping off her shoes — though it 
was not likely her footsteps could be heard out on the lawn — 
she went across the passage and opened the door of the little 
room : from which Mrs. Grey, in her fear and distress, had not 
dared to stir. 

" Ma'am," she whispered, " I must give you the clue of what 
I have been saying, lest they come and ask you questions too. 
It would never do for us to have two tales, you one and me 
another. Do you mind me, ma'am ? " 

*^Go on, Ann. Yes." 

*^The sick gentleman came unexpectedly yesterday, and 
was taken ill here. You and me grew frightened, and sent 
telegraphing off for a doctor. He got up after the doctor left 
— said he was better — didn't seem to think much of his illness, 
said he had been as bad before. Went away again at night ; 
had to go ; was going off to sea, I thought, as I heard you wish 
him a good voyage and safe landing. I didn't know his name, 
I said ; only heard you call him Edward : thought it was some 
relation of yours. Can you remember all this, ma'am ? " 

" Oh yes. You had better go back, Ann. If they see you 
talking to me — oh, go back ! Ann, I — I feel as though I 
should die>'' 


•' Nay, but you must keep up," returned the woman in kindly 
tones. *' I'll bring you in a beaten-up egg with a little wine in 
it. And, ma'am, you might say he was your brother if they 
come to close questioning : or brother-in-law. Don't fear. I'll 
lay all I'm worth they won't light upon the master. Twice they 
went within a yard or two of him, but " 

There was some noise. Ann Hopley broke off, closed the 
door softly, stole back, and slipped her feet again into her 
shoes. In less than a minute, when one of the men sauntered 
up, throwing his eyes through all the windows, she was in the 
scullery pumping water over her cauHflowers with as much 
noise as she could make. 

Ann Hopley had judged correctly. Mr. Strange went to 
the little room, knocked for permission to enter, and there 
held an audience of its mistress. The baby lay on her lap 
now, fast asleep. His questions were directed to bringing con- 
firmation — or contradiction — of the servant's ready tale. Mrs. 
Grey, though in evident tremor, and looking like a ghost, had 
caught up the thread of her lesson well, and answered correctly. 
Some particulars she had to improvise ; for his questions were 
more minute than they had been to Ann Hopley. 

His name ? — Greyo What relation ? — Brother-in-law. What 
did he come down for? — To say good-bye before embarking 
for Australia. Where would he take ship ? — She did not 
know ; forgot : oh, now she remembered, it was Gravesend. 
Was she in the habit of seeing him? — Not often. He was 
never long together in one place, always travelling about. But 
was he in a fit state to travel ? — She did not know. She had 
thought he looked ill and begged him to remain at least until 
to-day, but he said he could not, as he might lose his ship. 
Did he come-down to Foxwood by train ? — Oh yes, by train : 
there was no other way. And go up by train? — Certainly. 
Which train ? — One of the evening trains : thought it was past 
eight when he left The Maze. 

" It's the time for my mistress to take her egg," interposed 
Ann Hopley at this juncture, entering the room with the said 
egg in a tumbler. ** I suppose she's at liberty to take it." 

To this last little fling Mr. Strange answered nothing. Ann 
Hopley put the tumbler on the table and withdrew. Poor 


Mrs. Grey looked too weak and ill to lift it to her lips, and 
let it stay where it was. 

^* Can it possibly be true that you are still in search of Philip 
Salter? — here?" she asked, raising her troubled eyes to the 

" It is quite true/' he replied. 

*^ And that you really believe him to be concealed here ? " 

^* Madam, I could stake my life upon it." 

She shook her head in feeble remonstrance, feehng how weak 
she was to combat this fixed belief. It was the old story over 
again. Nevertheless she made one more effort. Mr. Strange 
was watching her. 

^' Sir, I do not know what to say, more than I said before. 
But I declare to you once again, as solemnly as I can ever 
speak anything in this life, as solemnly as I shall one day have 
to answer before my Maker, that I know nothing of Philip 
Salter. He never was here at all to my knowledge. Why will 
you not leave me in peace ? '' 

Mr. Detective Strange began to think that he should have to 
leave her in peace. Twice had he carried this fortress by 
storm to search at will its every nook and corner : and searched 
in vain. Armed with power though he was, the law would not 
justify these repeated entries, and he might be called to account 
for exceeding his duty. But the man was there — as surely 
as the sun was in the heavens : and yet he could not unearth 
him. He began to think there must be caves underground, 
impenetrable to the eye of man, with some invisible entrance 
to them through the earth itself— and perhaps a subterranean 
passage communicating with Mr. Smith's abode opposite. 

And so, the second search ended as the first had done — in 
signal failure. Once more there was nothing left for the 
detective but to withdraw his men and himself, and to ac- 
knowledge that he was for the time defeated. 

Within the Maze. 26 




Turning his face towards the railway-station after quitting The 
Maze with the view of making some inquiries, as to what 
passengers had alighted there the previous day and had gone 
back again — not that he believed one syllable of the tale told 
him — Mr. Strange encountered the gig of Dr. Cavendish 
bowHng along. The physician recognized him and pulled up. 

" What's this I hear, sir, about my patient's having gone off 
again ? " cried the doctor, in a sharp tone. 

" I have heard the same," repHed Mr. Strange. *^ But I 
don't believe it." 

*^ Oh then — you were not privy to it ? You did not send 
him away ? " 

*'Not I, Dr. Cavendish. I went to The Maze betimes this 
morning to — to pay him a visit ; and was met with a tale that 
the bird had flown." 

" I can tell you, sir, that he was in a most unfit state to 
travel," said the doctor, with angry emphasis. " I don't know 
what the consequences will be." 

" Ay, if he had gone. But it's all moonshine." 

"What do you mean by * moonshine?' Has he gone, or 
has he not gone ? " 

" They say at The Maze he has gone ; but I am sure he has 
not," was the answer. *' There was a motive for his being 
denied to me. Dr. Cavendish; and so — and so— when I went 
in this morning they concocted a tale of his departure. That's 
what I think." 

**They must have concocted it last night then," said the 
doctor. "The letter, informing me of the circumstance, was 
posted last night at Foxwood — and therefore must have been 
written last night." 

" Did they write to tell you he had gone ? " asked the detective, 
after a slight pause. 

" Mrs. Grey wrote. I received it by the post this morning. 
She would not trouble me to come over again, she said, as my 


patient had found himself obliged to leave last night. But I 
have troubled myself to come," added the doctor, wrathfully, 
" and to see about it ; for, of all mad acts, that man's getting 
up from his bed yesterday, and starting off by a jolting railway 
train was the maddest. Drive on, James." 

The groom touched the horse at the short command, and 
the animal sprang forward. Mr. Strange thought he would let 
the station alone for a bit, and loiter about where he was. 
This letter, written last night, to tell of the departure, somewhat 
complicated matters. 

A very short time, and the doctor came out again, Mr 
Strange accosted him as he was about to step into his gig. 

"Well, Dr. Cavendish, have you seen your patient?" 

" No, I have not seen him," w^as the reply. " It is quite true 
that he is gone. I find he is embarking on a sea-voyage, going 
off somewhere to the other end of the world, and he had to go 
up, or forfeit his passage-money." 

'^They told you, then, what they told me. As, of course, 
they would^' he added inwardly. 

" But there's something in it I don't altogether understand," 
resumed the doctor. " Not a syllable was spoken by the 
patient yesterday to denote that he was on the move, or that 
he had been on the move, even only journeying down from 
London. On the contrary, I gathered, or fancied I gathered, 
from the tenor of his remarks that he had been for some time 
stationary, and would be stationary for an indefinite period. 
It was when I spoke to him about the necessity of keeping 
himself quiet and free from exertion. What I don't understand 
is, why he should not candidly have told me that he had this 
voyage before him." 

Mr. Strange did not answer. Various doubts were crowding 
upon him. Had the man got away? in disguise, say? But 
no, he did not think it. 

**By the way, you did not tell me your name," said the 
doctor, as he took his seat in the gig. 

" My name ! oh, did I not ? My name is Tatton." 

Dr. Cavendish bent his head and spoke in a low tone. His 
groom was adjusting the apron. 

*'You hinted last night at some great trouble that this 


gentleman was in, Mr. Tatton. I have been wondering whether 
that has to do with this sudden departure — whether he had 
reasons for being afraid to remain here ? '' 

^^ Just the question that has occurred to me, Dr. Cavendish," 
confessed the detective. " If he has gone, it is fear that has 
driven him away." 

The gig bowled onwards. Mr. Strange stood still as he 
looked after it : and had the pleasure of seeing Mr. Philip 
Smith smoking his long pipe at his own window, and regarding 
the landscape with equanimity. He went on the other way. 
^ '' Good morning, Mr. Tatton." 

Mr. Tatton turned on his heel and saluted the speaker. Sir 
Karl Andinnian, who had followed him up. There was a 
degree of suppressed indignation in Karl's face, rarely seen 

" Is this true that I have just heard, Mr. Tatton," he began, 
calling the man by his true name — ^* that you have been again 
searching The Maze ? My butler informs me that he saw you 
and two policemen quit it just now." 

" It is true enough, Sir Karl. Salter is there. At least, he 
was there yesterday. There cannot be the slightest doubt that 
the sick man to whom Dr. Cavendish was called in was Salter. 
I obtained a description of him from the doctor, and should 
have recognized it anywhere." 

What was Karl to say ? He could not attempt to deny that 
a sick man had been there. It was an unfortunate circumstance 
that Sir Adam, in regard to height and colour of hair, somewhat 
answered to the description of Philip Salter. 

*^Sir Karl, you must yourself see that there's a mystery 
somewhere," resumed the detective, who (having taken his clue 
from Superintendent Game) honestly believed that the baronet 
of Foxwood Court cared not a rap for Salter, and had no 
covert interest in the matter, beyond that of protecting his 
tenant at The Maze. '^ Some one who is never seen by the 
public is living at The Maze, that's certain ; or, at any rate, 
dodging us there. Remember the gentleman in evening attire 
seen by the surgeon and nurse ; and now there's this gentleman 
ill in bed yesterday. These men could not be myths. Sir Karl. 
Who, then, are they ? " 


From sheer inability to advance any theory upon the point, 
lest he should do mischief, Karl was silent. These repeated 
trials were getting more than he knew how to bear. Had they 
come upon Adam this morning ? He did not dare to ask. 

"As to the tale told me by the woman-servant and Mrs. 
Grey — that the sick gentleman was a relative who had come 
down by train and left again, it will not hold water,'' con- 
temptuously resumed the detective. ^^Men don't go out for a 
day's journey when they are as ill as he is — no, nor take long 
sea-voyages. Why, if what Dr. Cavendish fears is correct, there 
cannot be many weeks of life left in the man he saw yesterday ; 
neither, if it be so, can the man himself be unconscious of it." 

Karl's heart stood still with its shock of pain. 

" Did Dr. Cavendish tell you that, Mr. Tatton ? " 

*^ Yes. Well, now. Sir Karl, that man is still at The Maze — 
I am convinced of it ; and that man is Salter.'^ 

" What did you find this morning ? " 

"Nothing. Nothing more than I found before. When I 
spoke of the sick man, and asked where he was, this cock-and- 
bull tale was told me ; which of course they had got up among 

" As I said before, Mr. Tatton, I feel certain — I am certain 
— that you will never find Salter at The Maze, from the simple 
fact that he is not there to be found — I am sure of it. I must 
most earnestly protest against these repeated annoyances to my 
tenant, Mrs. Grey ; and if you do not leave her alone for the 
future, I shall see whether the law will not compel you to do 
so. I do not — pray understand — I do not speak this in enmity 
to you, but simply to protect her." 

" Of course I understand that, Sir Karl," was the ready 
answer. "There's no offence meant, and none taken. But if 
you could put yourself in my place, you'd see my difficulty. 
Upon my word, I never was so mystified before. There Salter 
is. Other people can see him, and have seen him ; and yet 
when I search I find no traces of him. A thought actually 
crossed my mind just now, whether there could be a subter- 
ranean passage from The Maze to Clematis Cottage, and that 
Salter makes his escape there to his cousin on occasion. I 
should like to search it." 


^'Come and do so at once," said Karl, half laughing. 
" Nothing is so convincing as ocular demonstration. I give 
you full permission, as owner of the cottage ; I doubt not 
Smith will do so, as its tenant. Come and ask him." 

The detective was in earnest, and they crossed over. Seeing 
them making for the gate, Mr. Smith came out of his house, 
pipe in hand. It was one of those long pipes called church- 
wardens. Karl spoke a few words of explanation : Mr. Detec- 
tive Tatton suspected there might be secret rooms, or doors, or 
fugitives hidden in Clematis Cottage, and would like to search 
it. After the first momentary look of surprise, the agent re- 
mained unruffled. 

" Pass on, sir," said he, extending the thin end of his pipe to 
indicate the way. ** You are ,welcome. Go where you please : 
search into every nook and corner. If you surprise old Betty, 
tell her you're the plumber come to look at the pipes.'' 

Mr. Strange took him at his word. Karl and the agent 
waited in the sitting-room together. 

" Is it after Sir Adam, sir ? " breathed the agent. 
'^ No. No suspicion of him. It's after the other I told you 
of. Hush ! Better be silent." 

The agent put his pipe away. Karl stood at the front 
window. Old Betty, the ancient servant, came in with a 
scared face. She was a little deaf, but not with a deafness like 
Hopley's over the way. 

'' It's all right, Betty," called out her master. *^ Only looking 
to the drains and spouts." 

Satisfied in one sense of the word — for in truth it was readily 
seen by the most unprofessional eye that there were no means 
afforded for concealment in the shallow-built cottage — the 
officer soon joined them again. He had not had really a sus- 
picion of the cottage, he said by way of apology : it was merely 
a thought that crossed him. Mr. Smith, however, did not seem 
inclined to take the matter quite indifferently now, and accosted 

*' Now that you are satisfied, sir, perhaps you will have no 
objection to tell me who the individual may be, that you have 
fancied I would harbour in my house. I heard before from Sir 
Karl that you were after some one." 


From the tone he spoke in, a very civil tone, tinged with 
mockery, the detective caught up the notion that Smith already 
knew ; that Sir Karl must have told him : therefore he saw no 
occasion for observing any reticence. 

" When you know that we are looking for Philip Salter, you 
need not be so much surprised that we have cast a thought to 
this house as Salter's possible occasional refuge, Mr. Smith." 

The very genuine astonishment that seized upon Smith, his 
every look and word, was enough to convince those who saw it 
that he was unprepared for the news. 

^^ Philip Salter ! " he exclaimed, gazing from one to the other, 
as if unable to beheve what he heard. ^^ Philip Salter! Why- 
is he here ? Have you news that he is back in England ? " 

" We have news that he is here,'' said the detective, blandly. 
" We suspect that he is concealed at The Maze. Did you not 
know it, Mr. Smith ? " 

Mr. Smith sat down in the chair that was behind him, as 
if sitting came easier than standing, in his veritable astonish- 

"As Heaven is my judge, it is a mistake," he declared. 
*' Salter is not at The Maze ; never has been. We have never 
heard that he is back in England." 

*' Did you know that he left England ? " 

" Yes. At least, we had good reason for believing that he 
got away shortly after that escape of his. It's true it was never 
confirmed ; but the confirmation to his family lies in the fact 
that we have never since heard of him or from him." 


" Never. Were he in England we should have been sure to 
have had some communication from him, had it only been an 
application for aid — for he could not live upon air; and all 
means of earning a livelihood are here closed to him. One 
thing you and ourselves may alike rest assured of, Mr. Detec- 
tive — that, once he got safely away from the country he would 
not venture into it again." 

What with one disappointment and another, the detective 
almost questioned whether it was not as Smith said ; and that 
Salter, so far as Foxwood was concerned, would turn out to be 
a myth. But then — who. was this mysterious man at The 


Maze ? He was passing out with a good day when Mr. Smith 

" Have you any objection to tell me what gave rise to your 
suspicion that Salter was at Foxwood ? Or in England at all ? " 

But the officer had tact ; plenty of it ; or he would not have 
done for his post ; and he turned the question off without any 
definite answer. For the originator of the report, he who had 
caused it to reach the ears of Great Scotland Yard, was Sir Karl 

Very conscious of the fact was Karl himself as he went home. 
He remembered to have read somewhere of one of the tortures 
devised by inquisitionists in the days gone by. An unhappy 
prisoner would be confined in a room ; and, day by day, would 
watch the walls contracting by some mysterious agency, and 
closing around him. It seemed to Karl that the walls of the 
world were closing around him now. Or, rather, round one 
who had become dearer to him in his dread position than his 
own life — his most ill-fated brother. 

At home or abroad there was no ray of light to illumine or 
cheer the gloom. Abroad lay apprehension; at home only 
unhappiness, an atmosphere of estrangement that seemed to 
have nothing homelike or true about it. Karl went in, expect- 
ing to see the pony-chaise waiting. He had been about to 
drive his wife out; but, alarmed by the report whispered to 
him by Hewitt, and unable to rest in tranquillity, he had gone 
forth to see what it meant. But the chaise was not there. 
Maclean was at work on the lawn. 

" Has Lady Andinnian gone ? '' he inquired, rather surprised 
— for Lucy had not learned to drive yet. 

"My leddy is somewhere about the garden I think. Sir 
Karl," was the gardener's answer. " She sent the chay away 

He found his wife sitting in a retired walk, a book in her 
hand, apparently reading it. Lucy was fading. Her face, 
worn and thin, had that indescribable air of sadness in it that 
tells of some deep-seated, ever-present sorrow. Karl was all 
too conscious of it. He blamed her for her course of conduct ; 
but he did not attempt to conceal from himself that the trouble 
had originated with him. 


*' I am very sorry to have kept you waiting, Lucy," he began. 
** I had to go to Smith's on a little matter of business. You 
have sent the chaise away." 

" I sent it away. The pony was tired of waiting. I don't 
care to go out at all to-day.'' 

She spoke in an indifferent, almost a contemptuous tone. 
We must not blame her. Her naturally sweet temper was 
being sorely tried : day by day her husband appeared to act in 
a manner that seemed to afford less promise of reconciliation. 

'* I could not help it/' was all he answered. 

She glanced up at the weary accent. If ever voice spoke of 
despair, his did then. Her resentment vanished : her sym- 
pathy was aroused. 

'^ You look ill," she said. 

"I am ill," he replied. ^'So ill that I should be almost glad 
to die." 

Lucy paused. Somehow she never liked these half-explana- 
tions. They invariably left her with a sense of self-reproach, 
an idea that she was acting harshly. 

" Do you mean ill because of our estrangement ? " 

" Yes, for one thing. That makes all other trouble so much 
worse for me that at times I find it rather difficult to put up 
with my life. " 

Lucy played with her book. She wished she knew where 
her true duty lay. Oh, how gladly, but for that dreadful wrong 
ever being enacted upon herself, would she whisper out her 
beseeching prayer : *^Take me to your heart again, Karl ! " 

*' Should the estranged terms we are living on, end in a total 
and visible separation, you will have the satisfaction of remem- 
bering in your after-life, Lucy, that you have behaved cruelly 
to me. I repeat it : cruelly." 

** I do not wish to separate," murmured Lucy. 

*^ The time may soon come when you will be called upon to 
decide, one way or the other ; when there will be nothing left 
to wait for 3 when all will be known to the world as it is known 
to us." 

" I cannot understand you," said Lucy. 

" Let it pass," he answered, declining as usual to speak 
openly upon the dreaded subject; for, to him, every word 


spoken seemed fraught with danger. " You can guess what I 
mean, I dare say : and the less said the better." 

"You seem always to blame me, Karl," she rejoined, her 
voice softening almost to tears. 

'^ Your own heart should tell you that I have cause to do so." 
" It has been very hard for me to bear." 
" Yes ; no doubt. It has hurt your pride." 
*' And something besides my pride," rejoined Lucy, with a 
faint flush of resentment. 

" What has the bearing and the pain for you been, in com- 
parison with what I have had to bear and suffer ? " he asked, 
with emotion. " I, at least, have not tried to make it worse 
for you, Lucy, though you have for me. In my judgment, we 
ought to have shared the burden; and so made it lighter, if 
possible, for one another." 

Ay, sometimes she had thought that, herself. But then her 
womanly sense of insult, her justifiable resentment, would step 
in and scatter the thought to the winds. It was too bad of 
Karl to reflect on her " pride." 

" Is it to last for ever ? " she asked, after a pause. 
" Heaven knows ! " he answered. " Heaven knows that I 
have striven to do my best. I have committed no sin against 
you, Lucy, save that of having married you when — I ought not 
to have done so. I have most bitterly expiated it." 

He spoke as one from whom all hope in life has gone \ his 
haggard and utterly spiritless face was bent downwards. Lucy, 
her love all in force, her conscience aroused, touched his 

" If I have been more harshly judging than I ought, Karl, 
I pray you and Heaven to forgive me." 

He gave no answer; but he took and retained her hand. 
Thus they sat for some time, saying nothing. A bird, perched 
on a tree in front of them, was singing; a light cloud passed 
over the face of the blue sky. 

" But — you know, Karl," she began again in a half-whisper, 
^^ it has not been right, or well, for — for those to have been at 
The Maze who have been there." 

'^ I do know it. I have repeatedly told you I knew it. I 
would almost have given my life to get them out of it. It will 


not be long now, I fear, one way or the other : the climax I 
have been dreading seems to be approaching.'* 

"What climax?" 

'' Discovery. Bringing with it disgrace, and pain, and 
shame. It is when I fear that, Lucy, that I feel most bitterly 
how wrong it was of me to marry. But I did not know all the 
complication of the matter : I never anticipated the evils that 
would ensue. You must forgive me, for I did it three-parts in 

He clasped her hand as he spoke. Her tears were gathering 
fast. Karl rose to depart. 

" I ask, Karl, if we are to live this life for ever ? " 

" As you will, Lucy. The Hfe is of your choosing, not of 

One long look of doubt, of compassion, of love, in each 
others' eyes ; and then the hand-clasp was loosed. Karl went 
into the house, and Lucy remained alone upon the seat, 
weeping bitterly. 



Dreadful commotion at Mrs. Jinks's. Young ladies coming 
in, all in excitement ; the widow nearly off her head. Their 
pastor was ill. 

On a sofa before his parlour fire he lay extended, the 
Reverend Guy; his head on a soft pillow, his feet (in em- 
broidered slippers) on an embroidered cushion. The room 
was quite an epitome of sacred decorations ; crosses lay em- 
bedded in ferns ; illuminated scrolls adorned the walls. Some- 
thing was wrong with the reverend gentleman's throat : his 
hands and brow were feverish. Whether it was merely a 
relaxed throat, or a common sore throat, or a quinsy threaten- 
ing him, could not be decided in the general dismay. Some 
thought one thing, some another; all agreed that it must be 
promptly treated. The dear man was passive as a lamb in 
their ministering hands, and submitted accordingly. What 


rendered the case more distressing and its need of successful 
treatment more urgent, was the fact that the morrow would 
be some great day in the calendar, necessitating high services 
at St. Jerome's. How were they to be held when the chief 
priest was disabled ? Damon Puff was all very well ; but he 
was not the Reverend Guy Cattacomb. 

The Widow Jinks, assuming most experience by reason of 
age, and also in possessing a cousin who was a nurse of renown, 
as good as any doctor in an emergency, had recommended the 
appHcation of *^ plant'' leaves. The ladies accepted it eagerly. 
Anything to allay the beloved patient's sufferings and arrest the 
progress of the disorder. The leaves had been procured with- 
out loss of time ; Lawyer St. Henry's kitchen garden, over the 
way, having had the honour of supplying them ; and they were 
now in process of preparation under the ladies' fair hands. 
Two ladies were picking, three boiling and bruising, four sewing, 
all inwardly intending to apply them. The Widow Jinks had 
her hands full below ; gruel, broth, jelly, arrowroot, and other 
things, being in the course of preparation over the kitchen fire : 
the superabundant amount of dainties arising from the fact that 
each lady had ordered that which seemed to her best. What 
with the care of so many saucepans, and the being constantly 
called off to answer the knocks at the front-door, the widow 
felt rather wild ; and sincerely wished all sore throats at Jericho. 
For the distressing news had spread ; and St. Jerome's fair 
worshippers were coming up to the house in uninterrupted 

It fell to Miss Blake to apply the cataplasm. As many 
assisting, by dint of gingerly touching the tip of the reverend 
gentleman's ears, or holding back his shirt-collar, as could get 
their fingers in. Miss Blake, her heart attuned to sympathy, 
felt stirred by no common compassion. She was sure the 
patient's eyes sought hers : and, forgetting the few years' differ- 
ence in their ages, all sorts of flattering ideas and sweet hopes 
floated into her mind-— for it was by no means incumbent on 
her to waste her charms in wearing the willow for that false 
renegade — false in more ways than one — Karl Andinnian. 
Looking on passively, but not tendering her own help amongst 
so many volunteers, sat Jemima Moore in a distant chair, her 


face betokening anything but pleasure. There were times when 
she felt jealous of Miss Blake. 

The leaves applied, the throat bound up, and some nourish- 
ment administered in the shape of a cup of broth, nothing 
remained to be done, except that the patient should endeavour 
to get some sleep. To enable him to do this, it was obvious, 
even to the anxious nurses themselves, that he should be left 
alone. Miss Blake suggested that they should all make a 
pilgrimage to St. Jerome's to pray for him. Eagerly was it 
seized upon, and bonnets were put on. A thought crossed 
each mind almost in unison — that one at least might have been 
left behind to watch the slumbers : but as no one would help 
another to the office, and did not like very well to propose 
herself, it remained unspoken. 

" You'll come back again ! " cried the reverend sufferer, 
retaining Miss Blake's hand in his, as she was wishing him 

" Rely upon me, dear Mr. Cattacomb," was the response — 
and Miss Blake regarded the promise as sacred, and would not 
have broken it for untold gold. 

So they trooped out : and Mr. Cattacomb, left to himself 
and to quiet, speedily fell into the desired sleep. He was really 
feeling ill and feverish. The time was drawing on for late after- 
noon service, and Tom Pepp stood tinkling the bell as the 
pilgrims approached. Simultaneously with their arrival, there 
drove up an omnibus, closely packed with devotees from 
Basham, under the convoy of Mr. Puff. That reverend 
junior, his parted hair and moustache and assumed lisp in 
perfect order, conducted the service to the best of his ability ; 
and the foreheads of some of his fair hearers touched the 
ground in humility when they put up their prayers for the 
sick pastor. 

The autumn days were short now; the service had been 
somewhat long, and when St. Jerome turned out its flock, even- 
ing had set in. You could hardly see your hand before you. 
Some went one way, some another. The omnibus started back 
with its freight : Mr. Puff, however (to the utter mental collapse 
of those within it), joined the pilgrims on their return to Mr. 
Cattacomb's. Miss Blake went straight on to Foxwood Court : 


for, mindful of her promise to the patient, she wished to tell 
Lady Andinnian that she should not be in to dinner. 

Margaret Sumnor was staying with Lucy : she and her invalid 
sofa having been transported to the Court. The Rector and his 
wife had been invited to an informal dinner that evening ; also 
Mr. Moore and his sister : so Miss Blake thought it better to 
give notice that she should be absent, lest they might wait for 
her. Jemima Moore, a very good-natured girl on the whole, 
offered to accompany Miss Blake, seeing that no one else did ; 
for they all had gone off in the clerical wake of Mr. Puff. As 
the two ladies left the Court again, after leaving the message, 
they became aware that some sort of commotion was taking 
place before The Maze gate. It was too dark to see so far, but 
there was some howling and groaning. 

" Do let us go and see what it is ! " cried Miss Jemima. 
And she ran off without further parley. The irruption into The 
Maze of Mr. Detective Tatton — who was by this time known 
in his real name and character — had excited much astonish- 
ment and speculation in Foxwood ; more especially as no two 
opinions agreed as to what there was within The Maze that he 
could be after. The prevalent opinion amongst the juvenile 
population was, that a menagerie of wild beasts had taken up 
its abode inside. They collected at different hours in groups 
around the gate, pressing their noses against the ironwork in 
the hope of getting a peep at the animals, or at least of hearing 
them roar. This evening, a dozen or two had come down as 
usual. Tom Pepp, having cut short his ringing, in his ardour 
to make one of them, had forgotten to take off the conical cap. 

But these proceedings did not please Sir Karl Andinnian's 
agent at Clematis Cottage. That gentleman, after having warned 
the boys sundry times to keep away, and enlarged on the perils 
that indiscriminate curiosity generally brought to its indulgers, 
had crossed the road to-night armed with a long gig whip, 
which he began to lay about him. The small fry, yelling and 
shrieking, dispersed immediately. 

" Little Simpletons ! " cried Miss Jemima Moore, as the 
agent walked back with his whip, after explaining to her. 
" Papa says the police only went in to take the boundaries of 
the parish. And — oh ! There's Tom Pepp in his sacred cap ! 


Miss Blake, look at Tom Pepp. Oh ! if Mr. Cattacomb could 
only see him ! " 

Miss Blake, who never did things in a hurry, walked leisurely 
after the offending boy, intending to pounce upon him at St. 
Jerome's. In that self-same moment The Maze gate was thrown 
open, and Mrs. Grey, in evident tribulation, came forth wringing 
her hands, and amazing Miss Jemima more considerably than 
even the whip had amazed the boys. 

What she said, Jemima hardly caught. It was to the effect 
that her baby was in convulsions ; that she wanted Mr. Moore 
on the instant, and had no one to send for him. 

" I'll run for papa," cried the good-natured girl. " I will run 
at once ; I am his daughter. But you should get it into a warm 
bath, instantly, you know. Nothing else does for convulsions. 
I would come and help you, if there were any one else to go for 

In answer to this kindly suggestion, Mrs. Grey stepped inside 
again, and shut the gate in Miss Jemima's face. But she 
thanked her in a few heartfelt words, and begged her to get 
Mr. Moore there without delay : her servant was already pre- 
paring a bath for the baby. 

Jemima hastened, and met her father and aunt walking to 
Foxwood Court. The doctor went at once to The Maze, leaving 
his sister to explain the cause of his absence to Sir Karl and 
Lady Andinnian. 

Dinner was nearly over at the Court when the doctor at 
length arrived. The baby was better, he said : but he was by 
no means sure that it would not have a second attack. If so, 
he thought it could not live : it was weakly at the best. 

As may readily be imagined, scarcely any other topic formed 
the conversation at the dinner-table. Not one of the guests 
seated round it had the slightest notion that it was, of all others, 
the most intensely unwelcome subject to their host and hostess : 
the one, in his dread of hearing The Maze alluded to at all ; 
the other, in her bitter pain and jealousy. The doctor enlarged 
upon the isolated position of Mrs. Grey, upon her sweetness 
and beauty, upon her warm love for her child, and her great 
distress. Sir Karl made an answering remark when obliged. 
Lucy sat in silence, bearing her cross. Every word seemed to 


be an outrage on her feelings. The guests talked on; but, 
somehow, each felt that the harmony of the meeting had left it. 

Making a very frugal dinner, in spite of the remonstrances 
of Sir Karl and the attentions of Mr. Giles and his fellows, the 
doctor took a cup of coffee, and rose to leave again. His sister, 
begging Lady Andinnian to excuse her, put on her hat and 
shawl, and left with him. 

*^Are you going over to The Maze, William?'^ she asked 
when they got out. 

"lam, Diana." 

^^ Then I will go with you. That's why I came away. The 
poor young thing is alone, except for her servants, and I think 
it only a charity that some one should be with her." 

The surgeon gave a grin of satisfaction in the darkness of 
the night. " Take care, Diana," said he, with assumed gravity. 
"You know the question the holy ones at St. Jerome's are 
raising— whether that lovely lady is any better than she should 

"Bother to St. Jerome's," independently returned Miss 
Diana. " If the holy ones, as you call them, would spend a 
little more time in cultivating St. Paul's enjoined charity, and 
a little less in praying with those two parsons of theirs, Heaven 
might be better served. Let the lady be what she will, she is 
to be pitied in her distress, and I am going to her. Brother 

" Well ? " 

" I cannot think what is the matter with Lady Andinnian. 
She looks just like one pining away." 

The evening went on at the Court. Miss Blake came back, 
bringing the news that the Reverend Mr. Cattacomb's throat 
was easier, which was of course a priceless consolation. At 
ten o'clock Mr. and Mrs. Sumnor took their departure. Sir 
Karl walking with them as far as the lodge. Lost in thought, 
he had gone out without his hat : in returning for it he saw 
his wife at one of the flower-beds. 

" Lucy ! Is it you, out in the damp ? What do you want ? " 

" I am getting one of the late roses for Margaret," was the 
answer. "She likes to have a flower by her when she lies 
awake at night." 


^* I will gather it for you/ said Karl. And he chose the best 
he could in the starlight, and cut it. 

^^ Lucy, I am going over the way," he resumed in low tones, 
as they turned to the steps, '^and I cannot tell when I shall be 
back again. Hewitt will sit up for me." 

Of all audacious avowals, this sounded about the coolest to 
its poor young listener. 

"Why need you tell me of it?" she passionately answered, 
all her strivings for patience giving way before the moment's 
angry pain. 

Karl sighed ^^ It lies in my duty to do what I can, Lucy ; 
as I should have thought you might see and recognize. Should 
the child have a relapse in the course of the night, I shall be 
there to fetch Moore : there's no one else to go for him." 

Lucy dropped the train of her dress, and swept across the 
hall ; vouchsafing neither look nor word in reply. 

The chamber lay in subdued light ; with that hush pervading 
it, common to rooms where death is being waited for, and is 
seen visibly approaching. Mr. Moore's fears had been verified. 
The infant at The Maze had had a second attack of convulsions, 
and was dying. 

It lay folded in a blanket on its mother's lap. The peaceful 
little face was at rest now ; the soft breathing, growing slower 
and slower, alone stirring it. Miss Diana, her hat thrown off, 
sat on the hearth-rug, speaking every now and then a word or 
two of comfort : the doctor stood near the fire looking on ; 
Ann Hopley was noiselessly putting straight some things in a 

With her golden hair pushed back from her brow, and her 
pretty face, so delicate and wan, bent downwards, she sat, the 
poor mother. Excepting for the piteous sorrow in the despair- 
ing eyes, and a sobbing sigh that would arise in the throat, no 
sign of emotion escaped her. She knew the fiat — that all hope 
was over. The doctor, who saw the end getting nearer and 
nearer, and was aware that such ends are sometimes painful to 
witness, even in an infant, had been anxious that Mrs. Grey 
should resign her charge to some one else. Miss Diana made 
pne more effort to bring it about. 

Within the Maze. 27 


** My dear, I know you must be tired. You will have cramp. 
Let me take the baby, if only for a minute's relief." 

" Do, Mrs. Grey," said the doctor. 

She looked up at them with entreaty ; her hand tightening 
involuntarily over the little treasure. 

" Please don't ask me," she said piteously. " I must have 
him to the last. He is going from me for ever." 

^*Not for ever, my dear," corrected Miss Diana. "You will 
go to him, though he will not return to you." 

The door softly opened, and some one came gently in. 
Absorbed by the dying child though she was, and by the 
surroundings it brought, Mrs. Grey glanced quickly up and 
made a frantic movement to beckon the intruder back, her lips 
parting with fear. She thought it might be one who must not 
dare to show himself if he valued life and liberty : but it was 
only Karl Andinnian. 

^' Oh, Karl, he is dying ! " she cried in the impulse of the 
moment — and the dry eyes filled with tears. "My darling 
baby is dying." 

"I have been so sorry to hear about it, Mrs. Grey," re- 
turned Karl, who had his wits about him if she had not, and 
who saw the surprise of the doctor and Miss Diana, at the 
familiarity of the address. *^ I came over to see if I could be 
of any use to you " 

He fell to talking to Mr. Moore in an undertone, giving her 
time to recover her mistake ; and the hushed silence fell on the 
chamber again. Karl bent to look at the pale little face, soon 
to put on immortality ; he laid his hand lightly on the damp 
forehead, keeping it there for a minute in solemn silence, as 
though breathing an inward prayer. 

*' He will be better off there than here," whispered he to the 
mother, in turning to leave the chamber. " The world is full 
of care, as some of us too well know : God is taking him 
from it." 

Pacing a distant room liked a caged lion, was Sir Adam 
Andinnian. He wheeled round on his heel when his brother 

" Was ever position like unto mine, Karl ? " he broke out, 
anger, pain, impatience, and deep emotion^ mingling in his 


tone. *^Here am I, condemned to hide myself within these 
four walls, and may not quit them even to see my child die ! 
The blackest criminal on earth can call for his friends on his 
death-bed. When are that offensive doctor and his sister going 
away ? " 

" They are staying out of compassion to Rose," spoke Karl, 
in his quiet voice. '' Oh, Adam, I am so sorry for this ! I feel 
it with my whole heart." 

" Don't talk," said Adam, rather roughly. " No fate was 
ever like my fate. Heaven has mercy for others : none for me. 
Because my own bitter punishment was not enough, it must 
even take my son ! " 

^^ It does seem cruel to you, I am sure. But God's ways are 
not as our ways. He is no doubt taking him in love, from the 
evil to come. When we ourselves get above, Adam, we shall 
see the reason of it." 

Sir Adam did not answer. He sat down and covered his 
face with his hand, and remained in silence. Karl did not 
break it. 

Sounds by-and-by. The doctor and his sister were departing, 
escorted by Ann Hopley — who must see them to the gate and 
make it fast again. Adam was hurrying from the room : but 
his brother put his arm across the entrance. 

"Not yet, Adam. Not until Ann is in again, and has 
fastened the door. Think of the consequences if you were 
seen ! " 

But the bolts and bars were shot at last, and Adam went forth. 

In its own crib lay the baby then, straight and still. The 
fluttering heart had ceased to beat ; the sweet little face was at 
rest. Rose knelt by her own bed. Sir iVdam strode up to 
his child and stood looking at it. 

A minute's silence, deep as that of the death that was before 
him, and then a terrible burst of tears. They are always terrible 
when a man sheds them in his agony. 

'^ It was all we had, Karl," he said between his sobs. '' And 
I did not even see him die ! " 

Karl took the strong but now passive hands in his, as he 
strove to say a word of comfort to his brother. But these first 
moments of grief are not the most fitted for it, 


" He is happier than he could ever have been here, x\dam. 
Try and realize it. He is already one of God's angels." 

And my young Lady Andinnian, over at Foxwood Court, did 
not choose to go to bed, but sat up to indulge her defiant 
humour. Never had her spirit been so near open rebellion as 
it was that night. Sir Karl did not come in : apparently he 
meant to take up his abode at The Maze until morning. 

** Of course he must be there when his child is dying ! " spoke 
she to herself, as she paced the carpet with a step as impatient 
and a great deal more indignant than those other steps that she 
had paced that night. '^ Of course she must be comforted ! 
Whilst I- " 

The words were lost in a flood of emotion. Bitter reflections 
crowded on her, one upon another. The more earnestly and 
patiently she strove to bear andy2?rbear, the more cruelly seemed 
to rise up her afflictions. And Lucy Andinnian in her abandon- 
ment, wondered whether all pity had quite gone out of Heaven. 



What Mr. Detective Tatton's future proceedings would have 
been, or to what untoward catastrophe, as connected with this 
history, they might have led, had his stay at Foxwood been 
prolonged to an indefinite period, cannot here be known. He 
remained on. Social matters had resumed their ordinary sway. 
The Maze was left undisturbed; Mr. Cattacomb was well 
again ; St. Jerome's in full force. 

It might be that Mr. Tatton was waiting — like a certain 
noted character with whom we all have the pleasure of an 
acquaintance — for *^ something to turn up." That he was con- 
templating some grand coup, which would deliver his prize into 
his hands, whilst to the world and Mrs. Jinks he appeared only 
to be enjoying the salubrious Kentish air, and amusing himself 
with public politics generally, we may rest pretty well assured. 
But this agreeable existence was suddenly cut short. 


One morning, when Mr. Tatton's hopes and plans were, hke 
Cardinal Wolsey's greatness, all a-ripening, he received a com- 
munication from Mr. Superintendent Game at Scotland Yard, 
conveying the astounding intelligence that the real Philip Salter 
had not been in Foxwood at all, but had just died in Canada. 

Mr. Tatton sat contemplating the letter. He could not have 
been much more astonished had a bombshell burst under hhii. 
Of the truth of the information there could be no question : its 
reliability was indisputable. One of the chief officers in the 
home police force, who was in Canada on business, and had 
known Salter well, discovered him in the last stage of con- 
sumption, and saw him die. 

" I've never had such a fool's game to play as this^^ ejaculated 
Mr. Tatton, when sufficiently recovered to speak; ^' and never 
wish to have such another. What the deuce, then, is the 
mystery connected with The Maze ? " 

Whatever it might be, it was now no business of his ; though, 
could he have afforded to waste more time and money, he 
would have liked very well to stay and track it out. Summon- 
ing the Widow Jinks to his presence, he informed her that he 
was called away suddenly on particular business ; and then 
proceeded to pack up. Mrs. Jinks resented the departure 
quite as a personal injury, and wiped the quiet tears from her 

On his way to the station he chanced to meet Sir Karl 
Andinnian : and Karl's heart went up with a bound. The 
black bag in Mr. Tatton's hand, and the portmanteau being 
wheeled along beside him, spoke a whole volume of hope. 

" Good morning. Sir Karl. You have finely misled us as to 
The Maze." 

'^ Why, what do you mean ? " asked Karl. 

'^Salter has turned up in Canada. Or, one might perhaps 
rather say, turned down \ for he is dead, poor fellow ! " 

^^ Indeed!" 

" Indeed and in truth. One of our officers is over there, and 
was with him when he died. It was too bad of you to mislead 
us in this way, Sir Karl." 

"Nay, you misled yourselves." 

**A fine spell of time I have wasted down here! Weeks 


upon weeks ; and all for nothing. I never was so vexed in my 

**You have yourself to blame for it — or those who sent you 
here. Certainly not me. The very first time I had the honour 
of speaking to you, Mr. Tatton, I assured you, on the word of 
a gentleman, that Salter was not at Foxwood.'' 

" Well, Sir Karl — what is the secret being concealed within 
the place yonder ? '' pointing in the direction of The Maze. 

^^ I am not in the habit of inquiring into the private affairs of 
my tenants,'' was the rather haughty answer. *' If there be any 
secret at The Maze — though I think no one has assumed it but 
yourself — you may rely upon it that it is not in any way con- 
nected with Salter. Are you taking your final departure ? " 

"It looks like it, Sir Karl" — nodding towards the luggage 
going onward. " When the game's at the other end of the 
world, and dead besides, it is not of much use staying to search 
after it in this. I hope the next I have to hunt will bring in 
more satisfaction." 

They said farewell cordially. The detective in his sociability ; 
Karl in his abundant gratitude for the relief it would give his 
brother. And Mr. Detective Tatton, hastening on in the wake 
of the portmanteau, took the up-train, and was whirled away to 

A minute or two afterwards Karl met his agent. He was 
beginning to impart to him the tidings about Salter, when 
Smith interrupted him. 

^'I have heard it, Sir Karl. I had a letter from a relative 
this morning, which told me all. The information has taken 
Tatton away from here, I expect : I saw you speaking to him." 

" You are right." 

"As to poor Salter, the release is probably a happy one. 
He is better off than he ever could have been again in this 
world. But what on earth put Scotland Yard on the false 
scent that he was at Foxwood will always be a problem to me. 
Tatton's gone for good, I suppose, sir ? " 

"He said so." 

" And Sir Adam is, in one sense, free again. There will be 
less danger in his getting away from Foxwood now, if it be 
judged desirable that he should go." 


Karl shook his head. There was another impediment now 
to his getting away — grievous sickness. 

That Sir Adam Andinnian, the unfortunate fugitive at The 
Maze, had some very grave disorder upon him, could no longer 
be doubtful to himself or to those about him. It seemed to 
develop itself more surely day by day. Adam took it as calmly 
as he did other evils ; but Karl was almost out of his mind 
with distress at the complication it brought. Most necessary 
was it for Adam to have a doctor ; to be attended by one ; 
and yet they dare not put the need in practice. Calling in Dr. 
Cavendish had entailed only too much danger and terror. 

The little baby, Charles Andinnian, was lying at rest in 
Foxwood churchyard, within the precincts consecrated to the 
Andinnian family. Ann Hopley chose the grave, and had a 
fight over it with the clerk. That functionary protested he 
would not allot it to any baby in the world. She might choose 
any spot except that, but that belonged to the Foxwood Court 
people exclusively. Ann Hopley persisted the baby should 
have that, and no other. It was under the weeping elm tree, 
she urged, and the little grave would be shaded from the 
summer's sun. Sir Karl Andinnian settled the dispute. Ap- 
pealed to by the clerk, he gave a ready and courteous permis- 
sion, and the child was laid there. Ann Hopley then paid a 
visit to the stone-mason, and ordered a little white marble 
stone, nothing to be inscribed on it but the initials " C. A." 
and the date of the death. Poor Rose had only her sick 
husband to attend to now. 

He was not always ill. There were days when he seemed 
to be as well, and to be almost as active, as ever ; and, upon 
that, would supervene a season of pain, dread, and danger. 

One afternoon, when Karl was driving his wife by in the 
pony-chaise, Ann Hopley had the gate open, and was standing 
at it. It was the day following the departure of Mr. Tatton. 
Something in the woman's face— a sort of mute, appealing 
anguish — struck Karl forcibly as she looked at him. In the 
sensation of freedom and of safety brought by the detective's 
absence, Karl actually pulled up. 

^^Will you pardon me, Lucy, if I leave you for one moment? 
I think Ann Hopley wants to speak to me." 


He leaped out of the little low chaise, leaving the reins to 
Lucy. Her face was turning scarlet. Of all the insults he 
had thrust upon her, this seemed the greatest. To pull up at 
that very gate when she was in the carriage ! Mr. Smith and 
his churchwarden-pipe were enjoying themselves as usual at 
Clematis Cottage, looking out on the world in general ; and no 
doubt (as Lucy indignantly felt) making his private comments. 

^' He is very ill again, sir," were the few whispered words of 
Ann Hopley. " Can you come in ? I am not sure but it will 
be for death.'^ 

'' Almost immediately," returned Karl ; and he stepped back 
to the chaise just in time. Lucy was about to try her hand at 
driving, to make her escape from him and the miserable 

Since the night of the baby's death, Karl and his wife had 
lived a more estranged life than ever. Lucy constantly avoided 
him. When he spoke to her, she would not answer beyond a 
monosyllable. As to any chance of explanation on any 
subject, there was none. It is true he did not attempt any; 
and if he had done so, she would have waived him away, and 
refused to listen to it. This day was the first for some time 
that she had consented to let him drive her out. 

It had happened on their return. Lucy's eminently un- 
gracious manner as he took his seat again would have stopped 
his speaking, even if he had had a wish to speak ; but he was 
deep in anxious thought. The resentful way in which she had 
from the first taken up the affair of his unfortunate brother, 
kept him more silent than he might otherwise have been. He 
drove home, helped her out — or would have helped her, but 
that she swept by without touching him — left the pony to the 
waiting groom, and walked back to The Maze. 

Adam was in one of his attacks of pain, nay, of agony. It 
could be called nothing less. It was not, however, for death ; 
the sharpness of the paroxysm, with its attendant signs, had 
misled Ann Hopley. Rose looked scarcely less ill than her 
husband. Her grievous position was telling upon her. Her 
little child dead, her husband apparently dying, danger and 
dread of another sort on all sides. 

*' Do you know what I have been thinking, Rose ? " said 


Karl, when his brother had revived. *'That we might trust 
Moore. You hear, Adam. I think he might be trusted." 

*' Trusted for what ? " returned Adam ; not in his occasionally 
fierce voice, but in one very weak and faint. 

He was lying on the sofa. Rose sat at the end of it, Karl 
in a chair at the side. 

^' To see you ; to hear who you are. I cannot help believing 
that he would be true as steel. Moore is one of those men, as 
it seems to me, that we might trust our lives with." 

*' It won't do to run risks, old fellow. I do not want to be 
captured in my last hours." 

Karl believed there would be no risk. Mr. Moore was a 
good man, sensible and benevolent. The more he dwelt on 
the idea, the surer grew his conviction that the surgeon might 
be trusted. Rose, who was almost passive in her distress, con- 
fessed she liked him. Both he and his sister gave her the im- 
pression of being, as Karl worded it, true as steel. Ann Hopley 
was in favour of it too. She put the case with much ingenuity. 

" Sir, I should think there's not a doctor in the world — at 
least, one worthy the name — who would not keep such a secret, 
confided to him of necessity, even if he were a bad man. And 
Mr. Moore's a good one." 

And the decision was made. Karl was to feel his way to 
the confidence. He would sound the surgeon first, and act 

*^ Not that it matters much either way," cried Sir Adam, his 
careless manner reviving as his strength and spirits returned. 
" Die I soon must, I suppose, now ; but I would rather die in 
my bed here than on a pallet in a cell. So, Karlo, old friend, 
if you like to see what Moore's made of, do so." 

" I wish it had occurred to me before," cried Karl. " But 
indeed, the outside dangers have been so imminent as to drive 
other fears away." 

'^It will never matter, bon frere. I don't suppose all the 
advice in the kingdom could have saved me. What is to be, 
will be." 

" Sir," put in Ann Hopley, " where's the good of your taking 
up a gloomy view of it, all at once ? Thafs not the way to 
get well." 


" Gloomy ! not a bit of it," cried Sir Adam, in a voice as 
bright as the lark's on a summer's morning. *^ Heaven is 
more to be desired than Portland Prison, Ann." 

So Karl went forth, carrying his commission. In his heart 
he still trembled at it. The interests involved were so 
immense ; the stake was so heavy for his unfortunate brother. 
In his extreme caution, he would not be seen going to the 
surgeon's house, but sent a note to ask him to call at the 

It was evening when Mr. Moore arrived. He was shown into 
Sir Karl's own room. Giles was appearing with wax-lights, but 
his master motioned them away. 

'^I can say what I have to say better by this light," he 
observed to the doctor : perhaps as an intimation that the 
subject of the interview was not a pleasant one. And Giles 
shut them in alone. Karl sat sideways to the table, his elbow 
leaning on it ; the doctor facing him with his back to the 

'^ Mr. Moore,'' began Karl, after an embarrassed pause, 
"did it ever occur to you to have a secret confided to you 
involving life or death ? " 

Mr. Moore paused in his turn. The question no doubt 
caused him surprise. He took the " life or death " to be put 
from a professional point of view. A suspicion came over him 
that he was about to be consulted for some malady connected 
with the evident fading of Lady Andinnian. 

" I do not suppose. Sir Karl, there is a single disease that 
flesh is heir to, whether secret or known, that I have not been 
consulted upon in my time." 

*^Not disease," returned Karl hastily, finding he was mis- 
understood. " I meant an actual secret. A dangerous secret, 
involving life or death to the individual concerned, according 
as others should hold it sacred or betray it." 

A longer pause. Mr. Moore staring at Karl through the 

" You must speak more plainly, Sir Karl, if you wish me to 
understand." And Karl continued thoughtfully, weighing 
every word as he spoke it, that it might not harm his brother. 

^*The case is this, Mr. Moore. I hold in my keeping a 


dangerous secret. It concerns a — a friend : a gentleman who 
has managed to put himself in peril of the law. For the 
present he is evading the law ; keeping himself, in fact, con- 
cealed alike from enemies and friends, with the exception of 
one or two who are — I may say — helping to screen him. If 
there were a necessity for my wishing to confide this secret to 
you, would you undertake to keep it sacred ? Or should you 
consider it your duty as a conscientious mian to betray it?" 

'' Goodness me, no ! " cried the doctor. ^' I'm not going to 
betray people ; it's not in my line. My business is to heal 
their sicknesses. You need not fear me. It is a case of debt, 
I suppose, Sir Karl?" 

Karl looked at him for a moment steadily. " And if it were 
not a case of debt, but of crime, Moore ? What then ? " 

" Just the same. Betraying my fellow-men, whether smarting 
under perplexity or under sin, does not rest in my duty, I say. 
I am not a detective officer. By the way, perhaps that other 
detective — who turns out to be named Tatton, and to belong 
to Scotland Yard — may have been down here looking after the 
very man." 

Mr. Moore spoke lightly. Not a suspicion rested upon him 
that the sad and worn gentleman before him held any solemn 
or personal interest in this matter. Karl resumed, his voice 
insensibly taking a lower tone. 

*' An individual is lying in concealment, as I have described. 
His offence was not against you or against me. Therefore, as 
you observe, and as I judge, it does not lie even in our duty to 
denounce him. I am helping to screen him. I want you to 
undertake to do the same when you shall know who he is." 

"I'll undertake it with all my heart. Sir Karl. You have 
some motive for confiding the matter to me." 

" The motive arises from necessity. He is grievously ill ; in 
urgent need of medical care. I fear his days are already 
numbered : and in that fact lies a greater obligation to us to 
obey the dictates of humanity." 

" I see. You want me to visit him, and to do what I can for 
him. I am ready and willing." 

''He is — mind, I shall shock you— a convicted felon." 

" Well ? — he has a body to be tended and a soul to be saved," 


replied the surgeon, curiously impressed with the hush that had 
stolen over the interview. ^*I will do my best for him, Sir 

'^ And guard his secret ? '* 

" I will. Here's my hand upon it. What would my Maker 
say to my offences at the Last Day, if I usurped His functions 
and delivered up my fellow-man to vengeance ? " 

" I may trust you, then ? " 

^' You may. I perceive you are over anxious. Sir Karl. 
AVhat further assurance can I give you ? You may trust me as 
you trust yourself. By no incautious word or action of mine 
shall his peril be increased, or harm approach him : nay, I will 
avert it from him, if I can do so. And now — who is he ? The 
invalid at The Maze — to whom Mr. Cavendish was called in ? 
Taking one thing with another, that Maze has been a bit of a 
puzzle to me lately." 

''The same.'' 

''Ay. Between ourselves, I was as sure as gold that some 
one was there. Is it Mr. Grey ? The poor young lady's hus- 
band • the dead baby's father ? 

'•Just so. But he is not Mr. Grey." 

" Who is he, then ? " 

Karl glanced around him, as though he feared the very walls 
might contain eavesdroppers. 

" It is a dangerous secret," whispered Karl with agitation. 
" You will keep it with your life ? " 

" Once more, I will : I will. You cannot doubt me. Who 
is it?" 

" My brother. Sir Adam Andinnian." 

The doctor leaped to his feet. Perhaps he had a sudden 
doubt of Karl's sanity. He himself had assisted to lay Sir 
Adam in his grave. 

" Hush ! " said Karl. " No noise. It is indeed my most 
unfortunate brother." 

"Did he come to life again? Did Sir Adam come to life 
again ? " reiterated the wondering surgeon in his perplexity. 

" He did not die." 

They went together to The Maze after dark, Karl letting the 


doctor in with his own key. The whole history had been re- 
vealed to him. Nothing was kept back, except a small matter 
or two connected with the means of Sir Adam's daily conceal- 
ment : of those, no living soul without The Maze was cognizant, 
three excepted : Karl, Hewitt, and Smith the agent. Mr. 
Moore was entrusted with it later on, but not at first During 
the Hfetime of a medical man, it falls to his lot to hear some 
curious family secrets^ as it had fallen to Mr. Moore ; but he 
had never met with one half so strange and romantic as this. 

Sir Adam had dismissed the signs of his illness, and — it will 
hardly be credited — attired himself in evening dress. With 
the departure of Mr. Tatton, old habits resumed their sway, 
with all their wonted incaution. Mr. Moore saw the tall, fine 
man, with the white, even teeth, of whom he had caught that 
transient glimpse in the uncertain twilight some weeks before. 
The same, but with a difference : for the face was shrunken 
now to little more than half the size it had been then. In the 
past week or two he had changed rapidly. He met them when 
they entered — it was in the upstairs sitting-room : standing at 
the door erect, his head thrown back. Mr. Moore put out his 
hand ; but the other did not take it. 

" Do you know all, sir ? " he asked. 

*^A.ll, Sir Adam." 

" And you are not my enemy ? " 

*^ Your true friend, Sir Adam. Never a truer one shall be 
about you than I." 

Their hands met. " But I am not Sir Adam here, you know ; 
I am Mr. Grey. Ah, doctor, what a life it has been ! '' 

*^A life that has done its best to kill him," thought the 
doctor, as he sat down. " Why did you not call me in before ? " 
he asked. 

*'Well, we were afraid to do so. You would be afraid of 
every one if you were in my place and position. Besides, this 
disease, whatever it may turn out to be, has developed itself so 
rapidly that very little time seems to have been lost. I do not 
see how you will come in now, if it is to be a daily visit, with- 
out exciting the curiosity of the neighbourhood." 

'' Oh, nonsense," said the surgeon. " Mrs. Grey has a relapse, 
and I come in to see her, the curious neighbours will under- 


stand, if they are exacting upon the point. Or old Hopley, 
your gardener — I'm sure his rheumatism must need a doctor 

Sir Adam laughed. ^' Hopley will do best," he said. " And 
then you know, doctor, if — if the worst comes to the worst, 
that is, the worst so far as illness is concerned, I can be carried 
out as Hopley." 

'^ What do you think of him ? " inquired Karl gravely when 
the interview was over. 

" I will tell you more about it when I have seen him again," 
was the surgeon's answer. But his face and tone both 
assumed, or seemed to Karl to assume, an ominous expression 
as he gave it. 



Mrs. Cleeve was at Foxwood. She had been staying in 
London with her sister. Lady Southall, and took the opportunity 
to come down to see her daughter. Lucy's appearance startled 
her. As is well known, we are slow to discern any personal 
change either for better or worse in those with whom we live in 
daily intercourse : it requires an absence of days or weeks, as 
the case may be, to perceive it in all its reality. Mrs. Cleeve 
saw what none around Lucy had seen — at least, to the same 
extent — and it shocked and alarmed her. The face was sad 
and drawn ; dark rims encircled the sweet brown eyes ; the 
whole air and bearing were utterly spiritless. 

*^What can be the matter with you, my dear?'^ questioned 
Mrs. Cleeve, seizing on the first opportunity that they were 
alone together. 

*' The matter with me, mamma ! " returned Lucy, pretend- 
ing not to understand the question : though her face flushed 
painfully. " Nothing is the matter with me." 

" There most certainly is, Lucy : with your health or with 
your mind. You could not be as you are, or look as you do^ 
unless there were.'* 


*^ I suffered a great deal from the heat/' said poor Lucy. 

^' My dear — you are suffering from something else ; and I 
think you should enlighten me as to its nature. After that 
fever, even, you did not look as you are looking now.'' 

But not the very slightest acknowledgment from her daughter 
could Mrs. Cleeve obtain. Lucy would not admit that any- 
thing was amiss in any way ; at least, anything that she_ was 
conscious of. Mrs. Cleeve next appealed to Miss Blake. 
' But that young lady, absorbed by her own pursuits and 
interests ; by the Reverend Mr. Cattacomb and the duties at 
St. Jerome's, had really not been observant of Lucy's fading 
looks. She could be regardful enough in a contemptuous sort 
of way of Sir Karl's delinquencies, and of what she considered 
his wife's blind infatuation ; she did not omit to note the signs 
of trouble and care too evidently apparent in him, and which 
she set down as the result of an uneasy conscience : but she 
had failed to note them in Lucy. One cause of this perhaps 
was, that in her presence Lucy invariably put on an air of 
lightness, not to say gaiety : and Miss Blake was rarely at 
home, except at meals. If she did get an hour there, she was 
up to her ears in silks and church embroidery. What with 
Matins and Vespers, and the other daily engagements at St. 
Jerome's ; with looking after St. Jerome's pastors ; with keep- 
ing the young fry in order, including Tom Pepp, and seeing to 
the spiritual interests of their mothers, Miss Blake had so 
much on her hands that it was no wonder she was not very 
observant of Lucy. 

"I do not think there is anything particularly the matter 
with Lucy," was the answer she made to Mrs. Cleeve. 

" You must see how ill she looks, Theresa." 

^^ She is not ill. At least, that I know of. She takes her 
dinner and she dresses, and goes out, and has company at 
home. I really had not observed that she was looking ill." 

" She talks of the heat," continued Mrs. Cleeve ; " but that 
is all nonsense. Extreme heat may make a person thin, but it 
cannot make them sad and spiritless," 

^* Lucy is neither sad nor spiritless — that I have noticed." 

^^ Perhaps you have not noticed, Theresa. You have so 
many outdoor pursuits, you know, I suppose/' continued 


Mrs. Cleeve, with some hesitation, and lowering her voice to 
a confidential tone, as she asked the question : " I suppose 
there is nothing wrong between Lucy and her husband ? " 

** Wrong in what way, do you mean ? '^ rejoined Miss Blake. 

" Any misunderstanding, or unpleasantness." 

" I should say not^' returned Miss Blake, with acidity. " It 
is rather the other way. Lucy is blindly, absurdly infatuated 
with Sir Karl. If he boxed her on the one ear, she would only 
offer him the other.'' 

*^It cannot be that, then," sighed Mrs. Cleeve. *^ I only 
thought of it because there was nothing else I could think of. 
For I cannot help fancying, Theresa, that the malady is of the 
mind more than the body. I — I wonder whether that fever 
left behind it unsuspected consequences that are developing 
themselves now ? " 

Theresa, her attention given to the employment in hand — a 
cross she was working in gold thread to adorn some part or 
other of Mr. Cattacomb's canonicals — a great deal more than 
it was given to the conversation, allowed the doubt to pass 
undiscussed. Mrs. Cleeve had always been accustomed to 
worry herself about Lucy : Theresa supposed it was the habit 
of a mother who had an only daughter to do so. So the 
subject of Lucy's looks dropped for the time. 

" What is that for ? " resumed Mrs. Cleeve, directing her 
attention to the small gold cords. 

*^ This ? Oh, a little ornament I am making. Please don't 
touch it, Mrs. Cleeve, or you will entangle the threads." 

Thus rebuked, Mrs. Cleeve sat for some moments in silence, 
inhaling the fresh air through the open window, and the per- 
fume of the late flowers. The mignonette seemed intending 
to bloom on until winter. 

" Theresa, how much longer do you mean to remain here ? " 
she suddenly asked. '^Your stay has been a very protracted 

Theresa was aware of that. She was slightly suspicious that 
Sir Karl and his wife had begun to think the same, though in 
their courtesy they were not likely to allow it to appear. In 
truth, the matter was causing her some little reflection : for she 
would willingly have made the Court her i:)ermanent home, 


Whilst Mr. Cattacomb remained at St. Jerome^s, she should 
remain. It might have been somewhat of a mistake to insti- 
tute St. Jerome's, and to bring Mr. Cattacomb to it : Miss 
Blake could recognize it now : but as that step had been taken^ 
she meant to abide by it. 

"I am not likely to leave at present," she replied. "It 
would be very dull for Lucy to be here without me. As winter 
comes on, my outdoor duties will be somewhat curtailed, and 
I shall be able to give her more of my time. Lucy would be 
lost by herself, Mrs. Cleeve. She was always rather given to 

Yes. There was no doubt Lucy did *^mope.'' Mrs. Cleeve 
sighed deeply. A cloud lay on Foxwood Court, and she could 
not trace out whence it had arisen. 

The cloud, she thought, lay on Sir Karl as well as on Lucy. 
That is, his sadness, his weary face, and his evident preoccupa- 
tion were quite as visible to Mrs. Cleeve as were her daughter's. 
But for Theresa's emphatic assurance to the contrary, she 
might still have doubted whether the cloud did not lie between 
them. She was a single-minded, kind-hearted lady, not given 
to think ill, or to look for it : but in this case she did try to 
observe and notice. She could not help seeing how seldom 
Karl and his wife were together. Karl would drive Lucy out 
occasionally; but as a rule they saw little of him. He was 
generally present at meals, and always sociable and kind, and 
he would come into the drawing-room when visitors called, if 
at home ; spending the rest of his time chiefly in his own 
room, and in walking out alone. Later in the evenings he 
would usually be absent : Mrs. Cleeve noticed that. She had 
seen him walk across the lawn in the gloom to one of the little 
gates ; she had seen him come in again after an hour or two's 
interval ; and she wondered where he went to. 

The truth was, Karl was obliged to go to The Maze more 
frequently than he used to go, or than was prudent. Mr. 
Moore had not yet pronounced the fatal fiat on Sir Adam that 
Dr. Cavendish had — doubtfully — imparted to Mr. Detective 
Tatton ; but he concealed from none of them that the case was 
one of extreme gravity ; ay, and of danger. That Sir Adam 
almost daily grew more attenuated might be seen. He himself 

Within the Maze. 28 


assumed that he had but a short span of life left; and he 
would not allow Karl to be for one single evening absent. 
Sometimes in the day Karl also went there. The conviction 
that Adam would not be long amongst them lay more or less 
on every heart : and it will be readily understood that Karl 
should sacrifice caution to some extent to be with him whilst 
yet he might. 

^' Karlo, brother mine, you'll come over to-morrow morn- 
ing?" Sir Adam would say, when their hands met for the even- 
ing farewell — and he would keep the liand until the answer was 

^' If I can, Adam." 

'' That won't do. You must come. Promise." 

'^ I will, then. I will, if I can do so with safety.'^ 

And of course he had to go. Under other and happier cir- 
cumstances, he would never have left the invalid night or day.- 

The want of what Karl considered ^^ safety," as he spoke it 
in his answer to Adam, would have consisted in the road before 
The Maze being peopled ; in his being seen to enter. It was 
so unfrequented a road that not a soul would pass up or down 
for a quarter-of-an-hour together ; nay, for half one ; and, as a 
rule, Karl was safe. But he exercised caution at all times. 
He would saunter towards the gate, as though merely taking 
a stroll ; and then, the coast clear, would ring — for in the day- 
time he never used his key. If by ill-chance some solitary 
passenger should appear, he would saunter over to Mr. Smith 
and talk to him : and slip in when the intruder should have 
passed, Ann Hopley having the gate by that time ready to 
open. Karl would use the same precaution in coming out : 
and hitherto had escaped observation. It was not always to 
be so. 

The time passed on; Sir Adam fluctuating; some days fear- 
fully ill, some days feeling comparatively well ; and Mrs. Cleeve 
continuing at Foxwood, for she could not bear to leave Lucy. 

Karl went across one morning soon after breakfast. His 
brother had been very ill indeed the evening before : so ill that 
Karl had brought most unpleasant thoughts away with him. 
He was ringing when the gate suddenly opened ; Ann Hopley 
was letting out Mr. Moore. 


So far as his visits went, there bad been no trouble. Foxwood 
had taken care to inform itself as to what patient at The Maze 
Mr. Moore was again in regular attendance upon, and found it 
to be Hopley the gardener. The old man had caught an attack 
of rheumatic-fever, or some other affection connected with age 
and knee-joints — said the Miss Moores to the rest of the fair 
flock going to and from St. Jerome's. There was neither interest 
nor romance attaching to the poor old man ; so the doctor was 
at liberty to pass in and out at will, without the slightest thought 
being given to it. In the doctor's day-book the patient was 
entered as " James Hopley, Mrs. Grey's servant." The doctor's 
assistant, a fashionable young man from London, who wore an 
eye-glass, could have the pleasure of reading it ten times a day 
if he chose. 

" How is he ? " asked Karl of Mr. Moore. 

*^ Oh, better this morning — as I expected he would be," was 
the surgeon's answer. " But I have ordered him to lie in bed 
for the day. This time I think he will obey me, for he feels 
uncommonly weak." 

" Every fresh attack makes him weaker," observed Karl. 

" Why, of course it does : it must do so. I don't half like 
the responsibility that lies on me," continued the doctor. '* We 
ought to have another opinion." 

^* How can it be had ? " remonstrated Karl. 

'^ There it is. I wish he could be in London under the 
constant care of one of its practised men." 

"We wish this, and wish the other, Mr. Moore," said Karl, 
sadly, " and you know how impossible it is to do more than 
we are doing. Answer me truly — for I think you can answer. 
Would there be a fair chance of his recovery if we had other 
advice than yours ? Would there be more hope of it ? " 

" Honestly speaking, I do not think there would be. I 
believe I am doing for him all that can be done." 

Ann Hopley drew the gate open again, and the doctor went 
out. Karl passed on through the labyrinth. 

Sir Adam liked to exercise his own will in all respects, and 
it was the first time he had made even a semblance of obeying 
Mr. Moore's orders of taking rest by daytime. He looked very 
ill. The once handsome face seemed shrunk to nothing : the 


short hair was almost white ; the grey-bhie eyes, beautiful as 
Karl's, had a strangely wistful, patient look in them. 

" I thought you would be here, Karlo. I have wanted you 
ever since daylight." 

" Are you feeling better, Adam ? Free from pain ? " 

" Much better. Quite free from it." 

" Moore has been saying he wishes we could get you to 
London, that you might have better advice." 

*^What nonsense!" cried Adam. *'As if any advice could 
really avail me ! He knows it would not. Did it avail my 
father, Karl?" 

Karl remained silent. There was no answer he could make. 

*' Sit down, old fellow, and tell me all the news. Have you 
a paper with you ? '' 

"The papers have not come in yet," replied Karl, as he 
drew a chair to the bedside. 

" Slow coaches people are in this world 1 I shall get up 

'^ No, Adam, not to-day. Moore says you must not." 

^* Good old man ! he is slow too. But he won't keep me in 
bed, Karl, when I choose to leave it. Why should I not get 
up ? " continued Sir Adam, his voice taking a shade of its old 
defiance. *^ I am the best judge of my own strength. If I lay 
here for a month of Sundays, Karl, it would not add a day to 
my life." 

Perhaps that was true. At any rate, Adam was one whom it 
was useless to urge against his will. 

'^What's the old adage, Karlo? — *a short life and a merry 
one ? ' Mine has not been very merry of late, has it ? " 

'* I wish we could get you well, Adam." 

" Do you ? We are told, you know, that all things as they 
fall, are for the best. The world would say, I expect, that this 
is for the best. I wonder sometimes, though, how soon or how 
late the enemy would have shown himself, had my life continued 
smooth as yours." 

Smooth as yours ! The unconscious words brought a pang 
to Karl's heart ; they sounded so like mockery. Heaven alone 
knew the distress and turbulence of his own existence. 

*' I drew Moore into a cosy chat the other day," resumed Sir 


Adam. **The wife was safe away, trimming the plants in the 
greenhouse — Rose is nearly as good a gardener as I am, Karl.'' 

/'I know she is fond of gardening." 

" Ay, and has been amidst it for years, you see. Well — I 
led Moore on, saying this, and asking the other, and he opened 
liis mind a bit. The disease was in me always, he thinks, and 
must inevitably have come out, sooner or later. It was only 
a question of time. I have said so myself of late. But I did 
not look to follow the little olive-branch quite so quickly." 

'^ We may keep you here a long while yet, Adam. It is still 
possible, I hope, we may keep you for good. Moore has not 
said anything to the contrary." 

"You think he knows it, though?" 

Karl was really not sure. His own opinion was that Adam 
had less chance of recovering where he was, than he would 
have had under those of the London faculty whose specialty 
embraced that class of disease. 

** Shall you put on mourning for me, old fellow? It will be 
a risk, won't it ? I shan't care to be held up to the world as 
Adam Andinnian, dead, any more than I do, living. You 
won't care to say, either, *This black coat is worn for that 
brother of mine : the mauvais sujetwho set the world's tongue 
wagging with his scandal.' " 

What sort of mood was Sir Adam in this morning ? Karl's 
grey eyes questioned it. One of light and careless mockery ? 
— or was it an undercurrent of sadness and regret making itselt 
too uneasily felt in his heart ? 

'' Don't, Adam. It jars on every chord and pulse. You and 
I have cause to be at least more sober than other men." 

" What have I said ? " cried Sir Adam, half laughing. " That 
you may have to put on mourning for me. It is in the nature 
of things that the elder should go before the younger. You 
look well in black, too, Karl ; men with such good-looking faces 
as yours always do." 

*^I hope it will be a long time before I have to wear it," 
sighed Karl, perceiving how hopeless it was to change his 
brother's humour. 

" I'd wager Foxwood with you that it will be before Christmas," 

^' Adam, is it right to speak in this way ? " 


" Is it particularly wrong?" 

" Why do you do it ? " 

" Need of change, I suppose. I have had a solemn night 
of it, old fellow : and I hardly know yet whether I was asleep 
or awake. It was somewhat of both, I expect : but I thought 
I was amidst the angels. I can see them now as they looked ; 
a whole crowd of them gathered about my bed. And, Karlo, 
when a man begins to dream of angels, and to be unable to 
decide afterwards whether it be dream or reality, it is a pretty 
sure sign, I take it, that no great time will elapse before he is 
with them." 

Adam talked himself into a doze. With his worn and 
haggard face turned to the wall, he slept as peacefully as a 
child. Karl stole away, and went into the greenhouse. Rose 
was there with the plants ; the sunlight, shining on her beautiful 
hair, turned it into threads of gold. She lifted her white face, 
with its sad expression. 

" I knew you were with him, Karl, so I did not come in. 
Don't you think he looks very, very ill this morning ? " 

" Yes, he certainly does. He is asleep now." 

" Asleep ! In the daytime ! " 

** He had a bad night, I fancy." 

" Do you think there's any hope, Karl ? " she piteously 
asked — almost as if all hope had left her. 

**I don't know. Rose. Mr. Moore has not told me there is 

** Perhaps it is that he will not say," she rejoined, resting her 
elbow on the steps holding the plants, and her cheek on her 
hand. '' I seem to see it, Karl ; to see what is coming. 
Indeed, you might tell me the truth. I shall not feel it quite 
so much as I should had our circumstances been happier." 

^' I have told you all as far as I know. Rose." 

** My little baby is gone : my husband is going : all my 
treasures will be in the better world. I shall have nothing to 
do but live on for, and look forward to, the time when I also 
may go to them. Six months ago, Karl, had I known Adam 
must die, I think the grief would have killed me. But the 
apprehension we have undergone the last few weeks — Adam's 
dread, and my awful fear for him — has gone a great way to 


reconciling me. I see — and I think he sees — that death 
would not be the worst calamity that could happen. Better 
for him to be at rest than live on in that frightful peril night 
and day ; each moment as it passes one of living agony, lest 
the next should bring the warders of Portland Island to retake 
him. No wonder it is wearing him out." 

Karl went away echoing the last sentence ; every word she 
had spoken leaving its painful echo on his heart. No : it was 
no wonder that fatal illness had seized on Adam Andinnian 
before its time. 

Well, on this day Karl was not to escape unnoticed so easily. 
Ann Hopley unlocked the gate, and they both stood listening 
according to custom. Not a sound broke the stillness, save 
the furious chirping of two quarrelsome sparrows : not a step 
could be heard awaking the echoes. Ann Hopley drew back 
the gate, and Karl went forth. 

Went forth to find himself, so to say, in the very arms of 
Mrs. Cleeve and Miss Blake. They were standing quite still 
(a fact which accounted for their footsteps not being heard) 
gazing at these same two fighting birds in the hedge. What 
with Karl's naturally nervous organization, and what with the 
dread secret he had just left, every drop of blood seemed to 
leave his face. But he did not lose his presence of mind. 

" Looking on at a fight, Mrs. Cleeve ! " he exclaimed in 
a light tone. '^ Birds have their hasty passions as well as 
men, you see. Wicked combatants ! Let one another's 
heads alone. They won't look any the better without their 

One of the noisy birds, as if in obedience, flew away to a 
distant tree ; the other followed it. Karl stayed talking for a 
minute with the ladies ; heard that they had come out for 
a little walk ; and then he went on to his home. Mrs. Cleeve, 
as she continued her way, glanced inquisitively at the iron gate 
in passing. 

" Do the same people live there still, Theresa ? Let me see 
— a Mrs. Grey, was it not ? " 

" Oh yes, she lives there," slightingly returned Miss Blake. 
" She had a baby at the close of summer, but it died." 

** A baby ! Why, she was a young widow ? Stay — no— 


what was it ? Oh, her husband was abroad. Yes, I remember 
now. Has he returned home yet ? " 

**As much as he ever will return, I expect/' observed Miss Blake. 
" The girl has just as much a husband as I have, Mrs. Cleeve." 

** Why, what would you imply ? '* cried Mrs. Cleeve, struck 
with the words and the tone, 

" I once, quite accidentally, heard her sing, * When' lovely 
woman stoops to folly ! ' You know the song ? It was, in one 
sense of the word, sung in character," 

'' Oh dear !" cried Mrs, Cleeve, ''But— but what does Sir 
Karl do there ? '' 

" Sir Karl ? Oh— he is her landlord." 

The taunting way in which Miss Blake said it, turned Mrs. 
Cleeve's delicate cheeks to a rosy red. All sorts of unpleasant 
thoughts began crowding into her mind. 

'' Theresa, what do you mean ? " she asked, her voice dropping 
with its own dread. '' Ifave you any meaning?" 

And the chances were — taking into consideration the love 
of gossip and of scandal so inherent in woman — that Theresa 
Blake would there and then have disclosed that she had a 
meaning, and what the meaning was : but in that self-same 
moment she happened to turn her eyes on Mr, Smith, the 
agent. He was leaning over his garden-gate, playing with a 
bunch of late roses ; and he gravely lifted his hat to Miss Blake 
as she looked at him. 

There was something in the grave look, or in the sight of 
the man himself, or in the roses, telling of summer, that recalled 
most vividly to Miss Blake's mind the conversation she had 
once held with Mr. Smith, and the caution he had given her. 
At any rate, Jane Shore and the lighted taper, and the white 
sheet, and all the other accessories, rose up before her mental 
vision as plainly as one can see into a mirror. The penance 
looked no more palatable to Miss Blake now than it had looked 
then. As well keep clear of such risks, great and small. She 
changed her tone. 

" I really don't know anything about the young woman, Mrs, 
Cleeve. Pray do not take up a mistaken notion. She is Sir 
Karl's tenant; that is all." 

^^ But if she is not — quite — quite circumspect in her conduct, 


it must be rather unpleasant to have her so close to the Court,'* 
said Mrs. Cleeve. 

" Oh, she lives a perfectly retired life." 

" She is very pretty, I think ? " 

"Beautiful as an angel." 

Nothing more passed. The two sparrows came flying back, 
and began fighting again. But an uneasy impression was left 
on Mrs. Cleeve's mind ; for she could not forget the strangely- 
significant tone in which Miss Blake had spoken, and its too 
sudden change to cautious indifference. 

Karl was pacing one of the broad paths that evening in his 
grounds, when he found himself joined by Mrs. Cleeve. She 
had thrown a warm shav/l over her grey silk evening dress. 
He gave her his arm. The shadows were deepening : tlie 
evening star was already shining in the clear sky. 

" I want to tell you of a little plan I have formed, Karl, and 
to get your assent to it. It cannot have escaped your notice 
that Lucy is looking ill." 

*' I have seen it for some time," he answered. 

" And I should have spoken to you of it before," resumed 
Mrs. Cleeve, " only that Lucy herself seems so much annoyed 
when I allude to it ; telling me that nothing is the matter with 
her, and begging me not to take up fancies. Are you aware of 
anything being wrong with her general health ? " 

*' No, I am not : there is nothing wrong with it that I know 
of," returned Karl, unpleasantly conscious that he was not 
likely to know more about his wife's general health than any 
other of the Court's inmates. 

" Well, what I wish to do is this : to take Lucy to town with 
me when I leave, and let some physician see her." 

" But you are not leaving us yet ? " 

" Not just yet, perhaps ; but when I do go. In fact, I really 
must take her. I could not be easy to return home and leave 
Lucy looking as she is, without having some good medical 
opinion. Have you any objection to this ?" 

" Not the slightest. I do not fancy any physician could do 
Lucy much good — she has certainly, as I believe, no specific 
disease — but I think change of air and scene may bQ of much 
benefit to her, I am glad that she should go,'* 


" Well, now that I have your permission, Karl, I shall know 
how to act. Lucy has been telling me that she does not need 
a physician, and will not see one ; and that she does not care 
to go to London. But that we have never had consumption 
in our family, I should fear it for Lucy." 

Karl was silent. That Lucy had taken the unfortunate 
secret to heart in a strange manner, and that it was telUng 
upon her most unaccountably, he knew only too well. 

^^ It is rather ungrateful of her to say she does not care to go 
to London, considering that she has never stayed with her 
aunt since that illness at Winchester," resumed Mrs. Cleeve. 
*' Though, indeed, Lucy seems to have no energy left, and her 
cheerfulness appears to me more assumed than real. Lady 
Southall is anxious for her to go up with me." 

"Are you intending to stay again with Lady Southall 

*^I shall now; as long as Lucy does. And, armed with 
your authority, I shall insist on Lucy's going up with me. I 
wish you would come too. Sir Karl; my sister would be so 
glad to see you." 

With his unfortunate brother dying at The Maze, it was not 
possible for Karl to quit Fox wood. But he was exceedingly 
glad that Lucy should be absent for a time. It would leave 
him more at liberty. At least, in spirit. With Lucy's intense 
contempt and hatred for The Maze and its troubles, Karl never 
went there but he was conscious of feeling something like a 
schoolboy, who is in mischief away from home. 

" I cannot leave home just now," said Karl. " But you 
must tell Lady Southall that I shall be happy to take a future 
opportunity of paying her a visit." 

" Are you busy, that you cannot leave ? " 

^^My uncle Joseph's papers are not yet arranged; I am 
anxious to get on with them," he said, by way of excuse. And 
in truth that, so far, was so. In his mind's terrible distress the 
sorting of the papers had been much neglected. 

" At least, you will come to town to fetch Lucy home ? " 

*' Of course I will." 

The affair decided, they strolled the whole length of the 
walk in silence. Karl's thoughts were no doubt busy ; Mrs. 


Cleeve was wishing to say something else, and did not quite 
know how to begin. 

'^ What a nice evening it is ! " cried Karl. " How fair the 
weather continues to be ! " 

"Yes. But the hedges are showing signs of winter. I 
noticed it particularly when I was out with Theresa this morn- 
ing. That was The Maze^ I think, that we saw you coming 
out of." 

Karl assented. There was no help for it. 

" Does the young lady still Uve there alone? " 

" She has her servants with her.'^ 

" But not her husband." 

" Mr. Grey, it is understood, spends a good deal of his time 
in travelling." 

"Sir Karl, I think I must ask you plainly; I have been 
wanting to ask you," she said, taking courage. **Is there any 
reason for supposing that this lady is not — is not quite what she 
ought to be ? " 

"Why, what do you mean?" returned Karl, standing still in 
his surprise. ^^ Are you speaking of Mrs. Grey ? " 

" It is almost impossible to avoid attaching some doubt to a 
young and lovely woman, when she lives so unaccountably 
secluded a life," returned Mrs. Cleeve, calling up the most 
plausible excuse she could for her suspicions. 

" The very fact of her keeping herself so secluded ought to 
absolve Mrs. Grey from it," said Karl warmly. " She is a good 
and honourable lady." 

"You feel sure of that?" 

"I am sure of it. I know it. Believe me, dear Mrs. Cleeve, 
that Lucy herself is not more pure and innocent than that poor 
lady is," he added, taking Mrs. Cleeve's hands in his earnestness, 
in his anxiety to convince her. " She has had great trouble to 
try her ; she may be said to live only in trouble and sorrow : 
but Heaven knows how good she is, and how persistently she 
strives to be resigned, and endure bravely." 

Mrs. Cleeve kept the sensitive hands in hers ; she saw how 
worthy of trust he was in his earnestness; and every doubt 
went out of her. 

" I am very glad to hear it. I hope she and you will pardon 


my foolish thoughts. You go to see her sometimes, I 

beheve ? " 

*' When I think I can be of any use, I go. Her husband 

was once my dear friend : I go there for his sake." 
" Why does he not live here with her ? " 
'^ He cannot always do quite as he would. Just now he is 

in bad health." 

" And she lost her baby, I hear.' 

" Yes. It was a great grief to both of them." 

The sounding of the dinner-gong stopped further questioning. 

We may be assured Karl lost no time in conducting Mrs. 

Cleeve to the house. 



FoxwooD was going on. quietly with the approach of winter. 
Mrs. Cleeve had gone to London with her daughter; leaving 
Miss Blake to keep house at the Court. Some ladies, fearing 
the world's chatter, might have objected to remain with so 
young and attractive a man as Sir Karl Andinnian ; Miss Blake 
was a vast deal too strong-minded for any thought of the kind. 
She was busy as ever with St. Jerome's and its offices ; but she 
nevertheless kept a tolerably keen look-out on The Maze 
and on Sir Karl's movements as connected with it. He went 
there more than he used to do : by day now as well as by 
night : and she wondered how long the simple neighbourhood 
would keep its eyes closed to facts and figures, that, to her, 
were so offensively plain. 

There had been a sharpish frost in the night, but the glorious 
morning sun had chased its signs away. At mid-day it was 
shining hotly ; and Karl was almost glad of the slight screen 
of leaves left in the labyrinth as he made his way through it. 
Some days had passed since Adam had had any sharp attack 
of illness : he was wasting rapidly, and that was the worst 
outward sign. But his will in these intervals of ease was 
indomitable, and it gave him a ficdtious strength, 

AT THE RED DAWN. ^ * 445 

As Karl came in view of the lawn, he saw Rose standing by 
one of the distant beds, talking to Hopley. The old man was 
digging; and had bent himself nearly double over his work. 
Karl crossed over, a reprimand on his lips. 

" Adam, you should not. You promised me you would not 
again take a spade or any other gardening implement in your 
hand. Your strength is not equal to it, and it must do you 

*' Just listen to him, Rose. It would not be Karlo if he did 
not find fault with me. What shall you do for some one to 
croak at, brother mine, when I am gone ? " 

Was it Hopley who spoke ? — or was it Sir Adam ? The 
mouth and the speech, the crooked back, the tottering knees, 
the smock-frock, the red comforter and the broad straw hat, all 
were Hopley's. But the manner and the eyes too, now you 
came to see them as he looked up at Karl, were Sir Adam's. 

Yes. They were one and the same. Poor old Hopley the 
gardener was only Sir Adam in disguise. With the padded 
knees and the false hump he had managed to deceive the 
world, including Mr. Detective Tatton. He might not perhaps 
have so surely deceived Mr. Tatton, had the latter been looking 
after Sir Adam Andinnian and been acquainted with his person. 
But the decrepid gardener bore no resemblance to Philip 
Salter; and, that fact ascertained, it was all that concerned 
Mr. Tatton. 

It may be remembered that when Mrs. Andinnian was stay- 
ing at Weymouth, she and her servant, Ann Hopley, were in 
secret communication with one of the warders of Portland 
Prison : in point of fact, they were negotiating with him the 
possibilities of Sir Adam's escape. This man was James 
Hopley; a warder — as Karl had taken him to be — and also 
Ann's husband. In the skirmish that took place the night of 
the escape, the man really killed was the other prisoner, Cole : 
and it was he who was taken to Foxwood and lay buried in its 
churchyard. Hopley was drowned. 

At that period, and for some little time before it, Philip 
Smith was at Portland Prison. Not as a prisoner : the man 
had never in his life done anything to merit incarceration : but 
seeking employment there, through the interest of one of the 


chief warders, who was a friend of his — a man named O'Brian. 
From the date of the frauds of PhiUp Salter, Philip Smith had 
been — as he considered it — a ruined man : at any rate he was 
unable to obtain employment. A ruined man must not be 
fastidious, and Smith was willing and even anxious to become 
a warder if they would make him one. It was whilst he was 
waiting and hoping for the post, employed sometimes as an 
assistant, and thoroughly trusted, that the attempted escape of 
the prisoners occurred. Smith was one of those who put off in 
the boat after the fugitives : the other two being Hopley and 
O'Brian. In the skirmish on the Weymouth shore, Sir Adam 
was wounded and left for dead. O'Brian saw him lying there 
apparently dead, and supposed him to be so. O'Brian, how- 
ever, afterwards received a blow that stunned him — for the 
night was dark, and friends and foes fought indiscriminately — 
and Smith contrived to get Adam away into a place of conceal- 
ment. It is very probable that Smith foresaw in that moment 
how valuable a prize to him the living and escaped Sir Adam 
might become. O'Brian really believed him to be dead, and 
so reported him to the authorities. A dead man is worthless, 
and Sir Adam was allowed to be retained by his friends for 
interment : the beaten and disfigured Cole, shot in the face, 
being looked upon as Sir Adam. 

After that, the path was comparatively clear. Sir Adam, 
very badly injured, lay for many weeks hidden away. Smith 
continued at Portland Prison unsuspected, keeping his own 
counsel, and visiting Sir Adam cautiously at intervals. As 
soon as it was practicable for Sir Adam to be moved, the step 
was ventured on. He was got away in safety to London, and 
lay in retirement there, in a house that had been taken by 
Smith : his wife (formerly Rose Turner) coming up to join 
him; and Ann Hopley, faithful to Sir Adam's fortunes through 
all, waiting on them. She had no one else left to be faithful to 
now, poor woman. Smith managed everything. He had with- 
drawn himself from Portland Island, under the plea that he 
could no longer, in consequence of his disabled arm, aspire to 
a wardership — for his arm had been damaged that fatal nighty 
and it was thought he would never have the full use of it again. 
The plea was recognized by the prison authorities ; Smith 


retained his friendship with O'Brian, and occasionally corre- 
sponded with him, getting from him scraps of useful information 
now and then. From that time his services were devoted to 
Sir Adam. It was he who communicated between Sir Adam 
and his mother ; for letters they did not dare to transmit. It 
was he who first disclosed to Mrs. Andinnian the fact that Miss 
Rose Turner was her son's wife ; it was he who made the 
arrangements for Sir Adam's taking up his abode at The Maze, 
and provided the disguise to arrive in, as the decrepid old 
husband of the servant, Ann Hopley. To do Mr. Smith 
justice, he had fought against the scheme of coming to The 
Maze ; but Mrs. Andinnian and Adam were both bent upon 
it ; and he yielded. Adam and his wife had stayed in London 
under the name of Mr. and Mrs. Grey, and she retained it. 

Amongst the injuries Sir Adam received, was one to the 
mouth and jaw. It destroyed those beautiful front teeth of 
his. After his recovery, he sought the services of a clever but 
little known dentist named Rennet, went to the pain of having 
the rest of his teeth extracted, and two entire sets of false ones 
made. The journey Rose took to London, when Miss Blake 
espied her with Karl, was for the purpose of getting one of 
these sets repaired, Sir Adam having broken the spring the 
night before. 

The teeth had to be conveyed personally to Mr. Rennet and 
brought away; for Adam and his wife were too cautious to 
entrust him with their address. 

And now it will be seen how Sir Adam had concealed him- 
self at The Maze. In the daytime he was the toothless, hump- 
backed, infirm old Hopley, working at his garden with enlarged 
knees and tottering steps and coarse clothes. As soon as dusk 
came on, his false paddings were thrown off, and he was the 
well-bred gentleman. Sir Adam Andinnian, in evening attire 
and with white and even teeth. His assumed role was always 
maintained during the day : his meals were taken in the kitchen, 
for safety in case of any possible surprise, Ann attending upon 
him with all due respect. The delay in admitting Nurse Chaffen, 
kept waiting once on the wrong side of the kitchen-door, was 
caused by " Hopley's " taking out his set of teeth and putting 
on his broad-brimmed hat. The deafness was of course assumed 


as an addillonal precaution. Thus he had lived in a state of 
partial security, tending his flowers, and occupied with the care 
of his garden generally, an employment that he loved so well. 
The day that General Lloyd's party went in, Karl was transfixed 
with apprehension and amazement at seeing Hopley showing 
himself. Adam enjoyed it : it was so like him to brave things ; 
and he feared no danger from a pleasure-party such as that. 

Well, I think that is all that is needed in the way of expla- 
nation ; and we can go on. Karl was looking at the digging 
with regretful eyes. 

" You ought to be glad to see me at work again, Karl, instead 
of groaning over it," cried Sir Adam. 

*'And so I should be, Adam, only that I fear you will feel 
its effects unpleasantly by-and-by." 

" I asked him not to do it, but he only laughed at me," said 

^^ Somebody m.ust do it. I can't see the garden quite 
neglected. Besides, if I am well enough to work, there's no 
reason w^hy I should not. I am not sure, Karl, but I shall 
cheat you now." 

" Cheat me ? " 

^^ By getting well. What should you say to that ? " 

^' Thank Heaven for it : and do my best to smuggle you away 
to a place of safety." 

" By George, old fellow, I don't know that I shan't. I am 
feeling as blithe as a bee. Rose, take yourself a little further 
off, out of the mould." 

He was throwing about the spadefuls almost as well as he 
had ever thrown them in his strength. Rose w^as cheated 
into something like hope, and her face for the moment lost its 

^'I wish to goodness I could have a draught of beer," cried 
Adam. " Where is Ann, I wonder." 

Karl went for it. Ann Hopley shook her head at the idea 
of hope, when Karl spoke of it as she gave him the beer. 

" You never see any person, who was to live on, have the 
look in his face that he has, sir." 

" He looks fairly well to-day." 

** And so he will continue to look at times to the last, as it 


strikes me. I have had a good deal of experience in illness, 
sir. , As to his talking about getting well — why, sir, you know 
what he is : saying this and that without meaning it. There's 
no doubt he feels pretty sure himself how it will be." 

Karl sighed as he went back with the coveted beer. Yes, 
there was no real hope. 

That same night — or rather on the following morning, for 
the dawn was more than glimmering — Karl in his bed began 
to dream that he was out in a shower of hail. It seemed to be 
falling with great violence; so much so that a sharper crash 
awoke him. Lying awake for a moment and questioning where 
he was, he found the noise to be real. The hail was beating 
on the chamber window. 

Was it hail ? Scarcely. It was crashing only on one 
window, and came at intervals. It sounded more like gravel 
than hail. Karl rose and opened the window. Smith the agent 
stood underneath. A prevision of evil shook Karl as he leaned 

" He is very ill indeed, sir,*' said Smith in the lowest whisper, 
and extending his finger towards The Maze. "Mr. Moore's 
there, and thinks it will be for death. I thought you would like 
to know it." 

*^ How did you hear it? " asked Karl. 

*' Ann Hopley ran over and knocked me up, that I might go 
for the doctor." 

" Thank you," replied Karl. " I will be there directly." 

Now it so happened that for some purposes of cleaning — for 
the Court was not exempt from those periodical visitations any 
more than the humble dwelling of Mrs. Chaffen— Miss Blake's 
chamber had been temporarily changed to the one next to 
that recently occupied by Lady Andinnian, Miss Blake was 
in the habit of sleeping with her window open ; and, not being 
asleep at the time, she had heard Mr. Smith's footsteps and 
the crashes at Sir KarFs window. Of course she was curious 
as to what could cause the noise, and at first thought of house- 
breakers. Had Mr. Smith chanced to turn his head in the 
right direction during the colloquy with Sir Karl, he might 
have seen an elaborately night-capped head cautiously peeping 

Within the Maze. 29 


" Why, it is Mr. Smith ! " thought Miss Blake, as he walked 
away. *^ What an extraordinary thing ! He must have been 
calling up Sir Karl." 

Listening inside as well as out. Miss Blake heard the bell 
that was in Hewitt's chamber ring gently ; and, after a minute 
or two, the latter proceeding to his master's room. Then they 
both went down together, and Hewitt let Sir Karl out at the 
hall-door, and came upstairs again. Miss Blake, after a good 
deal of puzzling, arrived at the conclusion that the affair must 
be in some way connected with poachers — who had been busy 
on the land lately — and returned to her bed. 

With death on his face, and a look of resignation than which 
nothing could be more peaceful, lay Sir Adam for the last time. 
His weary life, with all its bitter turmoil, was nearly at an end ; 
night here was closing, morning there was opening. Karl's grey 
eyes were wet as he bent over him. 

" Don't grieve too much," said Adam, with a smile, as he put 
his cold hand into Karl's clasp. " You know how much better 
off I shall be. Rose knows it." 

*' You were so full of hope yesterday, Adam." 

'^ Was I ? It cheated the wife into a few hours of pleasant- 
ness, and did its mission. I did not think I took you in. 
Why, Karlo, I have just been waiting from day to day for what 
has now come : moreover, I have seen how best it all is as it is 
than anything else would be. I would not accept life if you 
could give it to me, unless the whole time since that Mid- 
summer Eve could be blotted out." 

Karl swallowed a rising sob. 

*' You don't know what it has been, Karl. No one can know 
what it is, to live under a hanging sword, as I have, unless they 
experience it. And few in this world can do that. It was all 
a mistake together. The shooting of Scott when I ought to 
have horsewhipped him ; the escape from Portland ; the taking 
up my abode here ; everything : and these mistakes, Karl, 
have to be worked out. I have paid for mine with life." 

Karl did not answer. He was only nervously pressing the 
wasted hand in his. 

" It is all, I say, for the best. I see it now. It was best 
that the little lad should go ; it is best that I should ; it is best 


that you should be the true owner of Foxwood. It would have 
been too much of a complication otherwise. The boy could 
never have put forth a claim to it whilst I lived; and, after 
that, people might have pointed their scornful finger at him as 
the son of a convict. I thank God for taking him." 

" Should you talk so much, Adam? " 

"I don't know, A man in my condition, about to leave 
the world behind, prefers to talk whilst he can. You will take 
care of my mk, Karl. There was no settlement, you know; 
and \ 

" I will take care of her to the best of my power, Adam,'' 
came the earnest interruption. " She shall have a proper and 
suitable jointure as the widowed Lady Andinnian.*' 

**No, Karl; not that. She and I have talked over the 
future at odd moments, and we do not wish it. Rose does not 
mean to acknowledge her marriage with me, or to live in any 
sort of state according with it. She will be Mrs. Grey to the 
end. Unless, indeed, any occasion were to arise, such as a 
breath of scandal brought against this past period of her life. 
Then, of course, the truth must be declared, and you, Karl, 
would have to come forward and testify to it. I leave that in 
your hands." 

**With every surety," assented Karl. 

*^ A few hundreds a-year, say four or five, are all that she will 
want from you, or will ever take. Her late uncle's money must 
come to her some time, and that of itself would be almost 
sufficient. She purposes to live a retired life with her aunt ; 
and I think it will be the happiest for her. In my desk, Karl, 
you will find a paper in my handwriting, setting forth all these 
wishes of hers and mine ; it will serve as a direction for you. 
No," he went on, after a pause ; " for her own peace, the world 
must never know her as Lady Andinnian. She dreads it too 
much. See you not the chief reason? She would have to 
stand before the public convicted of perjury. That past trial is 
rarely out of her mind, Karl — when she appeared falsely as 
Miss Rose Turner. The foolish things people do in their 
blindness ! It was my fault. Her fault lay only in obeying 
me : but your charitable people would not accept that as an 
excuse. Be that as it may, Karl, Rose's life henceforth will be 


one of modest position and strict retirement. Ann Hopley 
goes with her." 

Looking at the matter from all points of view, it might be, as 
Sir Adam said, for the best. 

^^ And you will be Sir Karl in reality as well as in seeming, 
brother mine ; and Foxwood will be your true home and your 
children's after you. That is only justice. When you arranged 
to marry Lucy Cleeve, you deemed yourself the inheritor, and 
she deemed it. My death will set all right. And now about 
Smith, Karl. The man did me a great service, for I should 
have been retaken but for him ; and he has been faithful to me 
since. I should like you to allow him something in the shape 
of an annuity — a hundred and fifty pounds a-year, or so. Not 
the cottage : he will not remain in this neighbourhood when I 
am gone. It was through me that his arm got injured : which, 
of course, partly incapacitates him for work ; and I think I am 
bound to provide for him." 

" It shall be done," said Karl. " Ungrudgingly." 

*^ I have mentioned it in my few instructions, and the sum. 
He— he— he " 

Sir Adam's hesitation was caused by faintness. He broke 
down, and for the time said no more. Nor did he recur to the 
subject again. 

The day went on, Adam partially sleeping through it. At 
other times he lay in a sort of stupor. Mr. Moore attended at 
intervals ; but nothing further could be done. At dusk Hewitt 
came over for a last sight of his old master ; for a last farewell : 
and he sobbed bitterly as he took it. 

Karl did not go home — at which Miss Blake was in much 
private wonder. Discarding the poacher theory, she shrewdly 
suspected now that he must be at The Maze, taking the oppor- 
tunity of his wife's absence to play the gay bachelor away from 
home. She asked Hewitt, she questioned Giles; Giles knew 
nothing; Hewitt fancied Sir Karl might be "detained at 
Basham " on business. 

And so the night set in. When quite awake, Adam had full 
possession of his senses, and exchanged a few words, sometimes 
with his wife, sometimes with Karl. About three o'clock he 
fell into a calm sleep. Karl watched on; Rose, weak and 


weary, dropped into a doze in a distant chair. Ann Hopley 
was in the kitchen below. 

Save for the faint sighing of the wind as it swept round the 
house, stirring the branches of the trees, there was no sound to 
be heard. Stillness reigned unbroken in the dying chamber. 
How many of us have kept these watches ! But who has kept 
them as this was being kept by Karl Andinnian ! 

With that bitter aching of the heart known but to few, and 
which when felt in its greatest intensity is the saddest pain the 
troubles of the world can give, Karl sat gazing on his brother. 
In his love for him, every pang endured by Adam in the past 
was a sting for himself, every hazard run, had reflected on him 
its dread apprehension. He sat thinking of what might have 
been ; looking on what was : and an awful regret, than which 
nothing like unto it could ever again be experienced, tore at his 
heart-strings for the wasted life, cut short ere it had reached its 
prime. More than willingly in that moment would Karl have 
given his own remaining days to undo what his brother had 
done, and to restore to him freedom and honour. It might 
not be. Adam's course was run : and he was passing away in 
obscurity from the world in which he had virtually no longer a 
place. Never for a moment did immunity from the perplexity 
it would bring to himself or release from the false position he 
had been compelled to assume, occur to Karl ; or, if it did, it 
was not dwelt upon : all of self and self-interest was lost in the 
regret and grief for his brother. He saw Adam living at Fox- 
wood Court with his wife, its master : held in repute by men ; 
he saw himself settled near with Lucy, his fortunes advanced 
by his brother's aid to a position not unacceptable to Colonel 
Cleeve ; he saw his mother living still and happy : a united 
family, enjoying comfort one with another. This might have 
been. His mother dead of a broken heart; Adam, dying 
before his eyes, an escaped fugitive ; his own life blighted with 
pain and sorrow unutterable for Adam's sake, his wife estranged 
from him — this was what was. Be very sure that no earthly 
pang could be keener than that despairing heartache felt by 
Karl Andinnian. 

How many a night at that still hour had Adam lain, listening 
to this moaning wind with supernaturally quick ear, lest it 


should be only covering other sounds — the approach of his 
deadly enemies ! How many times in a night had he quitted 
his bed, his heart beating, and stolen a cautious peep beside 
the blind to see whether they might not be there, in battle 
array, waiting until the dawn should come and they might get 
in to take him ! Ah, it was all at an end now; the fever, and 
the fear, and the wasting restlessness. Why ! if the men were 
drawn up round his bed, they would not care to touch him 
now. But the terror from force of habit remained with him to 
the last. 

Adam started up. How long he had slept, and how the 
night was going, Karl in his abstraction hardly knew. Adam's 
eyes looked somewhat wild in the shade cast by the night-light, 
and he put up his feeble hand. 

" What is it ? " asked Karl, gently. 

" I thought they were here, Karl ; I saw them in the room," 
he whispered — and his eyes went round it. ^* They had 
muskets, I think. Was it a dream ? " 

** Nothing but a dream, Adam. I am with you. Rose is 
asleep in the arm-chair." 

** Ay. I have not dreamt of them for a week past. Stay by 
me, Karlo." 

Karl would have risen to administer some cordial : but Adam 
was holding his hand in a tight grasp ; had closed his eyes, and 
seemed to be dropping asleep again. 

He slept about half-an-hour. Karl could not stir for fear of 
disturbing him : and his imprisoned arm went from a state of 
pins and needles into cramp. When Adam awoke, there was 
a smile on his face and a peaceful rest in his eyes. He w^as 
quite collected. 

^^ Karl, I dreamt of them again : but they had turned to 
angels. They were here, all about my bed. Oh, Karl, I wish 
you could see them as I saw them ! you would never be afraid 
of anything more in this world. What's that ? " 

Karl turned round : for Adam's eyes were fixed on some- 
thing or other behind him. He could see nothing save a 
streak of light, herald of the dawn, that came in at the side of 
the blind. 

*^ Do you mean the light, Adam ? It's the dawn breaking." 


"*Ay. My dawn. Draw up the blind, Karl." 

Softly, not to awaken Rose, Karl drew it up. Rose-coloured 
clouds, heralds of a beauteous sunrise, flooded the east. Adam 
lay and gazed at it, the smile on his face changing to a rapt 
look that seemed to speak of heaven, more than of earth. 

'^ It will be better there than here, Karl. For me.'* 

'^ Better for all of us/' 

" I am very happy, Karl. The world is fading from me ; 
heaven opening. Forgive me all that I have cost you." 

Karl's heart and eyes were full. 

'^ Just as the men who had troubled me were changed into 
angels, so my fear has changed to rest. The angels are about 
the bed still, Karl ; I know they are ; waiting for me. The 
same lovely light shone on them that is shining yonder ; and 
they told me without words that they had come to bear 
me up to God. I read it in their tender faces — so full of 
pitying love for me. It won't be so very long, Karl : you'll 
come later." 

Karl's tears were falling on the up-turned face. 

" I should like to have seen your wife, Karl : just once. 
Tell her so, with my love. Ask her to forgive me the worry I 
know I have caused her." 

" I will, I will." 

" Oh, Karl, it has been a dreadful life for me; you know it 
has. I began to think that God had forgotten me — how foolish 
I was ! He was full of mercy all the while, and kept me here 
in safety, and has now changed it all into peace. Listen, Karl ! 
there's a sound of sweet music." 

Karl could hear nothing but the wind. 

" The angels," whispered Adam, an ineffable smile on his 
face. " They sing on the journey, you know. Good-bye, 
Karl, good-bye ! " 

Karl bent his face, his tears streaming, his heart aching. 
These partings are too bitter to be told of. This was most 
essentially so. 

** Where's Rose, Karl?" 

She was already by Karl's side. He yielded his place to her, 
and went down to Ann ; and there sobbed over the kitchen- 
fire as a woman might have done. 


But in the midst of it all, he could say as his brother had 
said, " Thank God/' If ever a poor, sinful, weary man had 
need to rejoice that he was removed to that better world, it was 
Adam Andinnian. 

Rose's bell called Karl up again. The last moment was at 
hand. Ann Hopley followed : and they all stood round the 
bed and sav/ him die. The red clouds had dispersed ; the sun 
was just showing itself above the horizon. 



FoxwooD heard the news. Mrs. Grey's shaky old gardener, 
James Hopley, was dead. Mr. Moore, when applied to for 
particulars, went into a learned dissertation on chronic rheu- 
matism, and said that he had not been able to save him. 

Ann Hopley astonished the undertaker. She gave orders for 
three coffins ; and they must be of the best, she said, if it cost 
her a hundred pounds. Her poor husband and she had saved 
money, and she should like to spend it on him. 

There was again a battle with the clerk. It had been bad 
enough when Ann Hopley chose the ground for Mrs. Grey's 
little child, within the precincts of that belonging to the Andin- 
nian family; but to insist upon it that her own husband, a 
servant, should also lie there, was a piece of presumption the 
equal of which the clerk had never before heard of. However, 
Sir Karl, not waiting to be appealed to this time, called on the 
clerk, and said the woman might bury her husband there if she 
pleased j he did not think it right for people to assume exclu- 
siveness after death, whatever they might do in life. The clerk 
lifted his hands when Sir Karl's back was turned : radical 
notions such as these would tend to demoralize the best con- 
servative community. 

It was whilst his brother was lying dead, that Sir Karl — truly 
Sir Karl now — heard from his wife. She was ready to come 
back to Foxwood, as Mrs. Cleeve was about to return to Win- 
chester, and she appointed the following day, Tuesday, for Sir 


Karl to fetch her. It happened to be the day fixed for the 
funeral, and Karl wrote back to say that he could not leave 
home that day, but would fetch her on the Wednesday instead. 
To this he received no reply ; and he of course intended to 
abide by it. 

Tuesday came. About twelve o'clock in the day the funeral 
turned out of The Maze gates ; sundry curious ones amongst 
the juvenile population having assembled to witness the exit. 
A funeral was not an everyday event at Foxwood; and, 
besides. The Maze had been exciting interest of late. It was 
a simple funeral. A plumed hearse and one mourning-coach ; 
the undertaker and carriers walking. In the coach went Ann 
Hopley, smothered in a hood, with Hewitt to bear her com- 
pany. Foxwood said it was very neighbourly and civil of the 
butler: but Miss Blake felt sure he had received private 
orders from Sir Karl, and she wondered what Sir Karl was 
coming to. 

Now Lucy, Lady Andinnian, looking at things through a 
mist, as she had been looking, poor wife, for some time past, 
was very resentful that Sir Karl would not fetch her on the day 
she named. She reasoned with herself that his refusal must 
arise from one of two causes : either he was neglectfully in- 
different ; or else he had some engagement with Mrs. Grey : 
for, of deterring occupation, she believed he possessed none. 
Proudly angry, she determined to take her own way, and return 
home without him. 

Accordingly, on the Tuesday she started with her maid from 
London. But, like many a one who does things in offhand 
inexperience, she made a mistake, and took the wrong train. 
That is, she took one that did not stop at Foxwood. Lucy dis- 
covered this after she was in the carriage, and found they must 
get out at Basham. Leaving Aglae and the luggage to wait for 
the next train, which would not be up for two hours, Lucy took 
one of the waiting flies, and drove on. 

Lucy was full of thoughts and anticipations. She wondered 
where her husband was, what she should find him doing, and 
what excuse he would make. It lasted her all the way: and 
they were close on Foxwood village before anything occurred 
to arouse her. She woke up from her thoughts to find that the 


driver, who was a Foxwood man, had come very nearly to a 
standstill, and was staring at a funeral procession just then 
entering the churchyard. 

The first object that caught Lucy's eye was Hewitt. Hewitt 
attired as a mourner, and following the coffin. For a moment 
Lucy's heart beat quicker, and her gaze was strained : who 
could it be that was inside ? Gradually her eyes took in the 
whole scene : the spectators collected in the distance, watching ; 
the person enveloped in a silk hood and cloak at Hewitt's side : 
Mr, Sumnor in his surplice. 

All in a moment, as it seemed, just as the clergyman began 
to read, springing she could not tell from whence, there ad- 
vanced Sir Karl Andinnian. He was in black, but wore neither 
cr^pe band nor scarf; and it might have been thought he was 
only an ordinary spectator. Hewitt, however, drew back a step 
to give his master precedence, as though out of respect, as did 
Ann Hopley : and Sir Karl took off his hat and stood there, 
close to the coffin, his head bent low, 

" How very strange it is ! " thought Lucy. '' Who can be in 
the coffin ? — and who is the woman in the black silk cloak and 
hood ? There is Mr. Smith, the agent, too ! He is standing 
near with his hat off now." 

^^ Lucy ! Can it be you ? We did not expect you until 

The voice was Miss Blake's. St. Jerome's devotees were no 
freer from curiosity than their inferiors ; and a few of them had 
chanced to be taking a walk past the churchyard just at the 
critical moment ; of whom Miss Blake was one. 

" I thought I would come to-day, and not give Sir Karl the 
trouble of fetching me," replied Lucy. " Aglae is coming on 
from Basham by the next train with the luggage. How are 
you, Theresa ? Will you come inside ? " 

Miss Blake's answer was to open the fly door, seat herself by 
Lady Andinnian, and turn her gaze on the churchyard. The 
scene bore a charm for her as well as for Lucy. 

" Why, that's Sir Karl there ! " she exclaimed in surprise, the 
spectators' heads having intercepted her view while on the 

*' Yes," assented Lucy. " And there's Hewitt— and Sir 


Karl's agent — and a mourner with her face hidden. Who is 
it that is being buried, Theresa ? '* 

*' Why, it's only the old gardener at The Maze. As to 
Hewitt, I suppose he had to go to keep the woman in counte- 
nance. The old man was her husband, you know." 

*' But what should bring Sir Karl there ? '' 

*'And standing first, as though he were chief mourner!" 
commented Miss Blake, devouring the scene with her con- 
demning eyes, and giving the reins to her thoughts. " / don't 
know why he is there, Lucy. There are several things that 
I have not attempted to understand for some time past." 

" Is not that the part of the churchyard where the Andinnians 
lie ? — where their vault is ? " 

" It is. But Hopley is being buried there, you see : and that 
infant, that you know of, was buried there. The clerk is in a 
fine way over it, people say : but Sir Karl ruled that it should 
be so." 

Thoughts connected with Mrs. Grey, and the inexplicable 
manner in which Sir Karl seemed to yield to her humours, even 
to the honouring of her servants, flashed into Lucy's brain. It 
did not tend to appease her previous anger against him. 

*' Why could not Sir Karl come for me to-day, Theresa? " 

** It is of no use to ask me, Lucy. Sir Karl does not explain 
his motives to me. This funeral perhaps kept him," added 
Miss Blake, sarcastically, unconscious how very near she was to 
the truth. " After you left, he seemed almost to live at The 
Maze. Last week, he was there, as I believe, for a whole day 
and a whole night. I must speak, Lucy. Out of regard to 
decency, that girl ought to leave The Maze, or you leave 

" Drive on," cried Lucy to the coachman, in tones as though 
the world and all things in it were grating on her. And the 
man did not dare to disobey the command. 

But Miss Blake preferred to get out ; and did so. She had 
said what she did say from good motives ; and she took credit 
for not making worse of the account — as she might have done. 
Not a word would she say about his being called up in the 
night — and she knew now that it was to The Maze he had been 
summoned. With her whole heart she pitied Lucy 


" May I be forgiven if my duty ought to lie in silence ! '^ she 
muttered as she joined the Miss St. Henrys and others in the 
crowd. ^^ Lucy seems to have no friend about her in the world 
but me." 

The interment was over. The procession — what was left of 
it — went its way back again, Hewitt and Ann Hopley side by 
side in the coach. Sir Karl strolled away over the fields, and 
presently found himself joined by Mr. Smith. 

" So your mission at Foxwood is over," he cried sadly to the 
latter. " I have no more need to make believe I want an agent 

•^ Ay, if s over. Sir Karl. Better for him, almost, that he had 
fallen in the fray off Weymouth ; that I had never saved him ; 
than have lived to what his life has since been." 

" Better for him had he never come to The Maze," rejoined 
Sir Karl. 

*^ It was none of my doing. As you know, sir," 

" No : but you opposed his leaving it." 

" As he was here, I did. I had only his interest at heart. Sir 
Karl : although I know you have thought the contrary. The 
chances were that he could not have got away safely. In his 
own person he dared not have risked it ; and a decrepit figure 
like old Hopley's must have attracted attention. But for that 
detective's pitching upon Foxwood as a hunting-place, I believe 
Sir Adam would have been most secure here." 

'^ Well, it is over, with all its risks and chances," sighed Karl. 
** He did not forget you when he was dying. His wish was, 
that you should enjoy a moderate annuity during your life : 
which I have undertaken to pay." 

The agent's thanks, and they appeared very heartfelt and 
genuine, were cut short by the approach of Mr. Moore. He 
joined them as they walked along ; and the conversation fell 
on the illness of the deceased. 

" There was no real hope from the beginning, once the disease 
had fairly set in," cried the surgeon. ** There never is. In Sir 
Adam's case, the terrible anxiety he endured day and night 
brought it on, and caused it to develop with unusual rapidity ; 
there was not a shadow of chance for him.'* 

'* You did not tell me that,'" said Karl, 


" I was not quite sure of it myself at first : though I suspected 
It. I did not tell you, you say, Sir Karl. Well, no, not in so 
many words : but your own eyes might have seen it as its 
progress went on. Sir Adam knew it himself, I fancy, as surely 
as I." 

" Do you remember saying you wished he could have further 
advice ? " asked Karl. " Did not that prove that you had 

**I wished it chiefly for the satisfaction of those connected 
with him. All the advice in the world could not — as I sus- 
pected then, and soon saw — have saved his life. We some- 
times say of people, death has been a happy release for them. 
In his case, Sir Karl, it has been most unquestionably so : he 
is at rest.'^ 



Down on her knees, in self-abasement, the tears of contrition 
raining from her eyes, her face scarlet in its agony of shame, 
cowered Lucy Andinnian at her husband's feet. She would 
not let him raise her. It seemed to her that a whole lifetime of 
repentance could never atone for her sin. 

The misunderstanding that had kept them apart for months 
was being cleared away. 

On the day after the funeral, Karl sought his wife in the 
dressing-room to tell her of what had occurred. She had 
scarcely spoken a word to him since her return, or allowed him 
to speak one to her. Very briefly, in half-a-dozen words, he 
informed her his brother was dead, and delivered the message 
Adam had left for her. For a few minutes Lucy's bewilder- 
ment was intense ; and, when she at length grasped somewhat 
of the truth, her confusion and distress were pitiable. 

'^Oh, Karl, Karl, do you think you will ever be able to for- 
give me ? What can I do } — what can I do to atone for it ? " 

" You must get up, Lucy, before I say whether I forgive you 
or not." 


** I cannot get up. It seems to me that I ought never to get 
up again. Your brother at The Maze ! — your brother's wife ! 
Oh, what must you have thought of my conduct ? Oh, Karl, 
why do you not strike me as I lie ? " 

Sir Karl put forth his arms and his strength, and raised her 
to the sofa. She bent her face down on its pillow, to weep out 
her tears of shame. 

*^ Come, Lucy,'^ he said, when he had waited a few minutes, 
sitting beside her. " We shall not arrive at the end in this 
way. Is it possible that you did not know my brother was 

" How could I know it, Karl ? " she asked, through her 
streaming tears. *^ How was I likely to know it ? " 

*^You told me you knew it. You said that you had dis- 
covered the secret at The Maze. I thought you were resenting 
the fact of his being alive. Or, rather, of my having married 
you, knowing that he was so." 

** Why should I resent it ? How could you think so ? Was 
that the secret you spoke of in Paris the night before our 
wedding ? — that Adam was still living." 

'* That, and no other. But I did not know then that he was 
married — or suspect that he ever would marry. I learnt that 
fact only during my mother's last illness." 

" Oh, Karl, this is dreadful," she sobbed. ** What must you 
have thought of me all this time ? I almost wish I could die ! " 

*' You still care for me, then ; a little ? " 

With unchecked anguish she turned and hid her face upon 
his breast. '* I have only loved you the better all the while," 
she whispered. 

" Lucy, my dear, I say we shall not get to the end in this 
way. Look up. If you were in ignorance of my brother's 
existence, and of all the complications for you and for me that 
it involved, what then was it that you were resenting?" 

** Don't ask me, Karl," she said, her face growing scarlet 
again. *' I could not tell you for very shame." 

He drew a little away, making a movement to put her from 
him. Never had his countenance been so stern to her as it 
was now ; never could he be so little trifled with. 

*^ If there is to be an explanation between us, Lucy, it must 


be full and complete. I insist upon its being so. If you refuse 
to give it now — why I shall never ask you for it again. Do you 
not think you owe me one ? " 

Again she bent her face upon him. ^^ I owe you everything, 
Karl ; I owe you more reparation than I can ever give you. 
Never, as long as our lives shall last, will I have a secret from 
you again. Heaven helping me. If I hesitate to tell you this, it 
is because I am ashamed for you to know how foolish I could 
be, and the wicked thoughts I could have." 

''Not more foolish or wicked, I dare say, than I was for 
making you my wife. Speak out, Lucy. It must be so, you 
see, if there is to be a renewal of peace between us.'' 

Keeping her head where it was, her face hidden from him, 
Lucy whispered her confession. Karl started from her in very 
. " Lucy ! You could think that ! Of me ! " 

She put up her hands beseechingly. ** Oh, forgive me, Karl ; 
for the sake of the pain, forgive me ! It has been killing me 
all the time. See how worn and thin I am," 

He put his arm out and drew her to his side. " Go on, my 
dear. How did you pick up the notion ? " 

"It was Theresa." And now that the ice was broken, 
anxious to tell all and clear herself, Lucy fully described the 
past : the cruel anguish she had battled with, and her poor, 
ever-to-be renewed efforts to endure patiently, for his sake and 
for God's. Karl's arm involuntarily tightened around her. 

" Why did you not speak to me of this at once, Lucy ? " 
he asked, after a pause. " It would have cleared it up, 
you see." 

* I did speak to you, Karl ; and you seemed to understand 
me perfectly, and to accept it all as truth. You must remember 
your agitation, and how you begged me not to let it come to an 

" But I thought you alluded to the trouble about my poor 
brother : that it was the fact of his being alive you had dis- 
covered and were resenting. That was the exposure I dreaded. 
And no wonder : for, if it had come, it would have sent him 
back to Portland Island." 

Lucy wrung her hands. " What a miserable misapprehension 


it has been ! — And how base and selfish and cruel I must have 
appeared to you ! I wonder, Karl, you did not put me away 
from you for ever ! " 

"Will you go now?'' 

She knew^ it was asked in jest : he probably knew that 
neither would have parted from the other for the wealth of the 
world. And she nestled the least bit closer to him. 

" Karl ! " 


"Why did you not tell me about your brother when you 
found I knew nothing, and was resenting it ? If I had only 
known the real truth, we never should have been at issue for a 

" Remember, Lucy, that I thought it was what you did know, 
and spoke of. I thought you knew he was alive and was at 
The Maze with his wife. When I would have given you the 
whole history from the first, you stopped me and refused to 
hear. I wished to give it ; that you might see I was less to 
blame than you seemed to suppose. It has been a wretched 
playing at cross-purposes on both sides : and neither of us, that 
I see, is to blame for it." 

" Poor Sir Adam ! " she cried, the tears again falling. 
" Living in that dreadful fear day after day ! And what must 
his poor wife have suffered ! And her baby dying, and now 
her husband ! And I, instead of giving sympathy, have thought 
everything that was ill of her, and hated her and despised her. 
And, Karl— why, Karl — she must have been the real Lady 

He nodded. " Until Adam's death, I was not Sir Karl, you 
see. The day you came with her from Basham, and they told 
her the fly, waiting at the station, was for Lady Andinnian, she 
was stricken v/ith terror, believing they meant herself." 

" Oh, if I had only known all this time ! " bewailed Lucy. 
"Stuck up here, in my false pride and folly, instead of help- 
ing you to shield them and to lighten their burthen ! I 
cannot hope that you will ever quite forgive me in your 
heart, Karl." 

" Had it been as I supposed it was, I am not quite sure that 
I should. Not quite, Lucy, even to our old age. You took it 


up so harshly and selfishly, looking at it from my point of 
view, and resented it in so extraordinary a manner, so bitter a 
spirit " 

" Oh don't, don't ! " she pleaded, slipping down again in the 
depth of her remorse, the old sense of shame on her burning 
cheeks. "Won't you be merciful to me? I have suffered 

*^ Why, my darling, you are mistaking me again," he cried 
ter -' rly, as he once more raised her. " I said, ' Looking at it 
from my point of view.' Looking at it from yours, Lucy, I am 
amazed at your gentle forbearance. Few young wives would 
have been as good and patient as you." 

" Then do you really forgive me ? " 

"Before I answer that, I think I must ask whether you 
forgive my having married you — now that you know all." 

"Oh, Karl!" 

Her arms entwined themselves round his neck. Karl caught 
her face to his. He might take what kisses he chose from it 

" Karl, would you let me go to see her ? " she whispered. 

"See whom?" asked Karl, in rather a hard tone, his mind 
pretty full just then of Miss Blake. 

" Poor Lady Andinnian." 

" Yes, if you will," he softly said. " I think she would like 
it. But, my dear, you must call her * Mrs. Grey,' remember. 
Not only for safety, but that she would prefer it." 

They went over in the afternoon. Miss Blake, quite acci- 
dentally this time, for she was returning home quietly from 
confession at St. Jerome's — and a wholesale catalogue of 
peccadilloes she must have been disclosing, one would say, 
from the prolonged hearing — saw them enter. It puzzled her 
not a little. Sir Karl taking his wife there I What fresh ruse, 
what further deceit was he going in for ? Oh, but it was most 
sinful ! Worse than anything ever taken for Mr. Cattacomb's 

Lucy behaved badly : without the slightest dignity whatever. 
The first thing she did was to burst into tears, and kiss Mrs. 
Grey's hand : as if — it really seemed so to Mrs. Grey — she did 

Within the Maze. 30 


not dare to offer to kiss her cheek. Very sad and pretty looked 
Mrs. Grey in her widow's mourning. 

It was a sad interview : though in some respects a soothing 
and satisfactory one. Lucy explained, without entering into 
any details whatever, that she had not known who was residing 
at The Maze, or she should have been over before, Karl and 
Sir Adam permitting her. Rose supposed that for safety's sake 
Karl had deemed it well to keep the secret intact. And there 
the matter ended. 

" You will come and stay with me at the Court before you 
leave ? " pleaded Lucy. 

Rose shook her head. '* It is very kind of you to wish it. 
Lady Andinnian ; very kind indeed, under the circumstances ; 
but it could not be. I shall not pass through these gates until I 
pass through them with Ann Hopley for good. That will be 
very soon." 

"At least, you will come and stay with us some time in the 

" I think not. Unless I should be seized with a fever to see 
the spot once more that contains my husband and child. In 
that case, I might trespass on you for a day or two, if you 
would have me. Thank you very much. Lady Andinnian." 

" You will let me come over again before you leave ? " 

"Oh, I should be pleased — if Sir Karl has no objection. 
Thank you, Karl," she added, holding out her hands to him ; 
" thank you for all. You have been to us ever the most faith- 
ful friend and brother." 

The church bell at Foxwood was ringing for the late after- 
noon service as they quitted The Maze — for Mr. Sumnor, in 
spite of his discouragement and the non-attendance, kept on 
the daily service. The clang was sounding from St. Jerome's ; 
and several damsels, who had come round by the Court to call 
for Miss Blake, were trooping past. Lucy bowed ; Karl lifted 
his hat : he had ceased to care who saw him going in and out 
of The Maze now. 

" Karl," said Lucy, " I should like to go to prayers this 
evening. I shall come to no harm : it is scarcely dusk yet." 

He turned to take her. Mr. Sumnor and the clerk were in 
the church ; hardly any one else — just as it had been that other 


evening when Lucy had crept in. Even Miss Diana was off to 
St. Jerome's, in the wake of her flighty nieces. Lucy went on 
to her own pew this time. 

What a contrast it was ! — this evening and that. Now she 
was utterly still in her rapt thankfulness : then she had lain on 
the floor, her heart crying aloud to God in its agony. What 
could she do to show her gratitude to Him, who had turned 
the darkness into this radiant light? She could do nothing. 
Nothing, save strive to let her whole life be spent as a thank- 
offering. Karl noted her excessive stillness, her blinding tears ; 
and he probably guessed her thoughts. 

Whilst he was talking with Mr. Sumnor after the service, Lucy 
went in to the Vicarage. Margaret, lying in the dusk, for the 
room was only lighted by the fire, could not see who had entered. 

*' Is it you, Martha ? '' she said, thinking it was her sister. 
'* You are back early." 

"It is I — Lucy," said Lady Andinnian. **0h, Margaret, I 
was obliged to come to you just for a minute. Karl is outside, 
and we have been to church. I have something to tell you." 

Margaret Sumnor put out both her hands in token of wel- 
come. Instead of taking them, Lucy knelt by the reclining 
board, and brought her face close to her friend's, and spoke in 
a whisper. 

'^ Margaret, I want to thank you, and I don't know how. I 
have been thinking how impossible it will be for me ever to 
thank God : and it seems to be almost as impossible ever to 
thank you. Do you remember what you once said to me, 
about bearing and waiting ? Well, but for you, I don't think 
I cou/d have borne or waited, even in the poor way I have ; and 
—and " 

She broke down : sobs of emotion checked her utterance. 

" Be calm, my dear," said Margaret. " You have come to 
tell me that the trouble is over," 

" Yes : God has ended it. And, Margaret, I never need 
have had a shade of it : I was mistaken all the time. I — I 
was led to think ill of my husband ; I treated him worse than 
any one will ever know or would believe : whilst he was good 
and loyal to the core in all ways, and in the most bitter trouble 
the world can inflict. Oh, Margaret, had I been vindictive 


instead of patient — I might have caused the most dire injury 
and tribulation, and what would have been my condition now, 
my dreadful remorse through life ? When the thought comes 
over me, I shiver as I did in that old ague fever." 

Miss Sumnor saw how the matter had laid hold upon her 

"Lucy, my dear, it seems to me that you may put away 
these thoughts now. God has been merciful and cleared it to 
you, you say; and you ought to be happy." 

" Oh, so merciful ! " she sobbed. ** So happy ! But it might 
have been otherwise, and I cannot forget, or forgive myself." 

" Do you remember, Lucy, what I said ? That some day, 
when the cloud was removed, your heart would go up with a 
bound of thankfulness ? " 

" Yes. Because I did — and have done— as you told me ; 
and endured." 

The affair had indeed taken no slight hold of Lucy. She 
could not forget what might have been the result, and quite an 
exaggerated remorse set in. 

A few nights afterwards Karl was startled out of his sleep. 
Lucy had awakened, it appeared, in terror, and had turned to 
him with a nervous grasp as of one who is drowning. Sobbing, 
agitated, she frightened her husband. He would have risen 
for a light, but she prayed him not. 

"But what has alarmed you, Lucy? — what is it?'* he 

" A dream, Karl ; a dream," she sobbed, in her distress. 
** I am always thinking of it by day, but this time I dreamt it ; 
and I awoke believing it to be true." 

" Dreamt what ? " he asked. 

" I thought that cruel time had come back again. I thought 
that I had not been quiet and patient, as Margaret enjoined, 
leaving vengeance to God, but had taken it into my own hands, 
and so had caused The Maze secret to be discovered. You 
and Adam had both died through it ; and I was left alone to 
my repentance, on some barren place surrounded by troubled 

" Lucy, you will assuredly make yourself ill." 

" But oh, Karl, if it had been true ! If God had not kept 
me from it ! " 

( 469 ) 


They stood together in the north parlour : Sir Karl Andinnian 
and Miss Blake. In the least severe terms he knew how to 
employ, Sir Karl was telling her of her abuse of his hospitality 
— the setting his wife against him — and intimating that her visit 
to them had better for the present terminate. 

It took Miss Blake by surprise. She had remarked a differ- 
ence in their behaviour to one another during the past day 
or two. Lucy scarcely left Sir Karl alone a minute : she was 
with him in his parlour; she clung to his arm in unmistakable 
fondness in the garden ; her eyes were for ever seeking his, 
with a look of pleading love. *^They could not have been 
two greater simpletons in their honeymoon," severely thought 
Miss Blake. 

Something else had rather surprised her. Walking past The 
Maze this same morning, she saw the gate propped open, and 
a notice, that the house was to be let, erected on a board. The 
place was empty ; its late tenants, the lady and her maid, had 
departed. Turning to ask Mr. Smith the meaning of this, she 
saw a similar board at his house. Mr. Smith was packing up, 
and Clematis Cottage was in the market. 

" Good gracious ! Are you going to leave us, Mr. Smith ? " 
she asked, as that gentleman showed himse